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CHILDE    HAROLD'S 
PILGRIMAGE 


^  5^omaunt 


BY 

LORD    BYRON 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS   Y.   CROWELL  &  CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

CHILDE   HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE. 

Preface  to  the  First  and  Second  Canto v 

To  lanthe i 

Canto  the  First 5 

Canto  the  Second 45 

Canto  the  Third 83 

Canto  the  Fourth 125 

Dedication 127 

Notes 199 


L'univers  est  une  esp^ce  de  livre,  dont  on  n'a  lu  que  la  premiere 
page  quand  on  n'a  vu  que  son  pays.  J'en  ai  feuillet^  un  assez  grand 
nombre,  que  j'ai  trouve  ^galement  mauvaises.  Cet  examen  ne  m'a 
point  iti  infructueux.  Je  haissais  ma  patrie.  Toutes  les  imperti- 
nences des  peuples  divers,  parmi  lesquels  j'ai  v^cu,  m'ont  reconcili^ 
avec  elle.  Quand  je  n'aurais  tire  d'autre  Wndfice  de  mes  voyages  que 
celui-lk,  je  n'en  regretterais  ni  les  frais  ni  les  fatigues. 

Lb  Cosmopolite.* 

*  [Par  M.  de  Montbron,  Paris,  1798.  Lord  Byron  somewhere  calls 
it  "  an  amusing  little  volume,  full  of  French  flippancy."  —  E.] 


IV 


PREFACE. 

[to  the  FraST  AND  SECOND  CANTOS.] 


The  following  poem  was  written,  for  the  most  part, 
amidst  the  scenes  which  it  attempts  to  describe. 
It  was  begun  in  Albania ;  and  the  parts  relative  to 
Spain  and  Portugal  were  composed  from  the  author's 
observations  in  those  countries.  Thus  much  it  may 
be  necessary  to  state  for  the  correctness  of  the  de- 
scriptions. The  scenes  attempted  to  be  sketched  are 
in  Spain,  Portugal,  Epirus,  Acarnania,  and  Greece. 
There,  for  the  present,  the  poem  stops :  its  reception 
will  determine  whether  the  author  may  venture  to 
conduct  his  readers  to  the  capital  of  the  East,  through 
Ionia  and  Phrygia :  these  two  cantos  are  merely  ex- 
perimental. 

A  fictitious  character  is  introduced  for  the  sake  of 
giving  some  connection  to  the  piece ;  which,  how- 
ever, makes  no  pretension  to  regularity.  It  has  been 
suggested  to  me  by  friends,  on  whose  opinions  I  set 
a  high  value,  that  in  this  fictitious  character,  "  Childe 
Harold,"  I  may  incur  the  suspicion  of  having  intended 
some  real  personage :  this  I  beg  leave,  once  for  all, 
to  disclaim  —  Harold  is  the  child  of  imagination,  for 
the  purpose  I  have  stated.  In  some  very  trivial  par- 
ticulars, and  those  merely  local,  there  might  be 
grounds  for  such  a  notion ;  but  in  the  main  points, 
I  should  hope,  none  whatever. 
V 


VI  PREFACE. 

It  is  almost  superfluous  to  mention  that  the  ap- 
pellation "  Childe/'  as  "  Childe  Waters,"  "  Childe 
Childers,"  etc.,  is  used  as  more  consonant  with  the 
old  structure  of  versification  which  I  have  adopted. 
The  "Good-Night,"  in  the  beginning  of  the  first 
canto,  was  suggested  by  "  Lord  Maxwell's  Good- 
Night,"  in  the  "  Border  Minstrelsy,"  edited  by  Mr. 
Scott. 

With  the  different  poems  which  have  been  pub- 
lished on  Spanish  subjects,  there  may  be  found 
some  slight  coincidence  in  the  first  part,  which 
treats  of  the  Peninsula,  but  it  can  only  be  casual ; 
as,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  concluding  stanzas, 
the  whole  of  this  poem  was  written  in  the  Levant. 

The  stanza  of  Spenser,  according  to  one  of  our 
most  successful  poets,  admits  of  every  variety.  Dr. 
Beattie  makes  the  following  observation:  —  "Not 
long  ago  I  began  a  poem  in  the  style  and  stanza  of 
Spenser,  in  which  I  propose  to  give  full  scope  to 
my  inclination,  and  be  either  droll  or  pathetic,  de- 
scriptive or  sentimental,  tender  or  satirical,  as  the 
humor  strikes  me ;  for,  if  I  mistake  not,  the  meas- 
ure which  I  have  adopted  admits  equally  of  all  these 
kinds  of  comjjosition."  —  Strengthened  in  my  opinion 
by  such  authority,  and  by  the  example  of  some  in  the 
highest  order  of  Italian  poets,  I  shall  make  no  apol- 
ogy for  attempts  at  similar  variations  in  the  following 
composition;  satisfied  that,  if  they  are  unsuccessful, 
their  failure  must  be  in  the  execution,  rather  than 
in  the  design  sanctioned  by  the  practice  of  Ariosto, 
Thomson,  and  Beattie. 

^NOON,  February,  i8u> 


ADDITION  TO  THE  PREFACE. 


I  HAVE  now  waited  till  almost  all  our  periodical 
journals  have  distributed  their  usual  portion  of  criti- 
cism. To  the  justice  of  the  generality  of  their  criti- 
cisms I  have  nothing  to  object :  it  would  ill  become 
me  to  quarrel  with  their  very  slight  degree  of  cen- 
sure, when,  perhaps,  if  they  had  been  less  kind  they 
had  been  more  candid.  Returning,  therefore,  to  all 
and  each  my  best  thanks  for  their  liberality,  on  one 
point  alone  shall  I  venture  an  observation.  Amongst 
the  many  objections  justly  urged  to  the  very  indiffer- 
ent character  of  the  "vagrant  Childe"  (whom,  not- 
withstanding many  hints  to  the  contrary,  I  still 
maintain  to  be  a  fictitious  personage),  it  has  been 
stated,  that,  besides  the  anachronism,  he  is  very  un- 
knightly,  as  the  times  of  the  Knights  were  times  of 
Love,  Honor,  and  so  forth.  Now,  it  so  happens  that 
the  good  old  times,  when  r amour  du  bon  vieiix  terns, 
r amour  antique  flourished,  were  the  most  profligate 
of  all  possible  centuries.  Those  who  have  any  doubts 
on  this  subject  may  consult  Sainte-Palaye,  passim, 
and  more  particularly  vol.  ii.  p.  69.  The  vows  of 
chivalry  were  no  better  kept  than  any  other  vows 
whatsoever ;  and  the  songs  of  the  Troubadours  were 
not  more  decent,  and  certainly  were  much  less  re- 
fined, than  those  of  Ovid.  The  Cours  cfamour,  par- 
lemens  cfamour,  ou  de  courttsie  et  de  gentilesse  had 
much  more  of  love  than  of  courtesy  or  gentleness, 
vii 


viu         ADDITION  TO    THE  PREFACE. 

See  Roland  on  the  same  subject  with  Sainte-Palaye. 
Whatever  other  objection  may  be  urged  to  that  most 
unamiable  personage  Childe  Harold,  he  was  so  far 
perfectly  knightly  in  his  attributes  —  "No  waiter,  but 
a  knight  templar."  By  the  by,  I  fear  that  Sir  Tris- 
trem  and  Sir  Lancelot  were  no  better  than  they 
should  be,  although  very  poetical  personages  and 
true  knights  sans  peur,  though  not  sans  reproche. 
If  the  story  of  the  institution  of  the  "  Garter  "  be  not 
a  fable,  the  knights  of  that  order  have  for  several 
centuries  borne  the  badge  of  a  Countess  of  Salis- 
bury, of  indifferent  memory.  So  much  for  chivalry. 
Burke  need  not  have  regretted  that  its  days  are  over, 
though  Marie-Antoinette  was  quite  as  chaste  as  most 
of  those  in  whose  honors  lances  were  shivered,  and 
knights  unhorsed. 

Before  the  days  of  Bayard,  and  down  to  those  of 
Sir  Joseph  Banks  (the  most  chaste  and  celebrated 
of  ancient  and  modern  times),  few  exceptions  will  be 
found  to  this  statement;  and  I  fear  a  little  investi- 
gation will  teach  us  not  to  regret  these  monstrous 
mummeries  of  the  middle  ages. 

I  now  leave  "  Childe  Harold"  to  live  his  day,  such 
as  he  is ;  it  had  been  more  agreeable,  and  certainly 
more  easy,  to  have  drawn  an  amiable  character.  It 
had  been  easy  to  varnish  over  his  faults,  to  make  him 
do  more  and  express  less,  but  he  never  was  intended 
as  an  example,  further  than  to  show,  that  early  per- 
version of  mind  and  morals  leads  to  satiety  of  past 
pleasures  and  disappointment  in  new  ones,  and  that 
even  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  the  stimulus  ol 
travel   (except  ambition,  the  most  powerful  of  all 


ADDITION  TO    THE  PREFACE.  ix 

excitements)  are  lost  on  a  soul  so  constituted,  or 
rather  misdirected.  Had  I  proceeded  with  the 
poem,  this  character  would  have  deepened  as  he 
drew  to  the  close ;  for  the  outline  which  I  once 
meant  to  fill  up  for  him  was,  with  some  exceptions, 
the  sketch  of  a  modern  Timon,  perhaps  a  poetical 
Zeluco. 

London,  iSij. 


TO   lANTHRi 


Not  in  those  climes  where  I  have  late  been  straying, 
Though  Beauty  long  hath  there  been  matchless 

deem'd ; 
Not  in  those  visions  to  the  heart  displaying 
Forms  which  it  sighs  but  to  have  only  dream'd, 
Hath  aught  like  thee  in  truth  or  fancy  seem'd : 
Nor,  having  seen  thee,  shall  I  vainly  seek 
To    paint    those   charms   which    varied    as   they 

beam'd  — 
To  such  as  see  thee  not  my  words  were  weak  ; 
To  those   who  gaze  on  thee  what  language  could 

they  speak? 

Ah  !  may'st  thou  ever  be  what  now  thou  art. 
Nor  uubeseem  the  promise  of  thy  spring. 
As  fair  in  form,  as  warm  yet  pure  in  heart, 
Love's  image  upon  earth  without  his  wing. 
And  guileless  beyond  Hope's  imagining  ! 
And  surely  she  who  now  so  fondly  rears 
Thy  youth,  in  thee,  thus  hourly  brightening, 
Beholds  the  rainbow  of  her  future  years, 
Before  whose  heavenly  hues  all  sorrow  disappears. 

'  [The  Lady  Charlotte  Harley,  second  daughter  of  Edward, 
fifth  Earl  of  Oxford  (now  Lady  Charlotte  Bacon),  in  the 
autumn  of  1812,  when  these  lines  were  addressed  to  her,  had 
not  completed  her  eleventh  year.  Mr,  Westall's  portrait  of  the 
juvenile  beauty,  painted  at  Lord  Byron's  request,  is  engraved  ia 
"  Finden's  Illustrations."  —  E.] 
I 


2  TO  lANTHE. 

Young  Peri  of  the  West !  —  'tis  well  for  me 
My  years  already  doubly  number  thine ; 
My  loveless  eye  unmoved  may  gaze  on  thee, 
And  safely  view  thy  ripening  beauties  shine ; 
Happy,  I  ne'er  shall  see  them  in  decline  ; 
Happier,  that  while  all  younger  hearts  shall  bleed, 
Mine  shall  escape  the  doom  thine  eyes  assign 
To  those  whose  admiration  shall  succeed. 
But  mix'd  with  pangs  to  Love's  even  loveliest  hours 
decreed. 

Oh !  let  that  eye,  which,  wild  as  the  Gazelle's, 
Now  brightly  bold  or  beautifully  shy, 
Wins  as  it  wanders,  dazzles  where  it  dwells. 
Glance  o'er  this  page,  nor  to  my  verse  deny 
That  smile  for  which  my  breast  might  vainly  sigh. 
Could  I  to  thee  be  ever  more  than  friend : 
This  much,  dear  maid,  accord  ;  nor  question  why 
To  one  so  young  my  strain  I  would  commend, 
But  bid  me  with  my  wreath  one  matchless  lily  blend. 

Such  is  thy  name  with  this  my  verse  entwined ; 
And  long  as  kinder  eyes  a  look  shall  cast 
On  Harold's  page,  lanthe's  here  enshrined 
Shall  thus  be  first  beheld,  forgotten  last : 
My  days  once  number'd,  should  this  homage  past 
Attract  thy  fairy  fingers  near  the  lyre 
Of  him  who  hail'd  thee,  loveliest  as  thou  wast. 
Such  is  the  most  my  memory  may  desire ; 
Though  more  than  Hope  can  claim,  could  Friendship 
less  require? 


SRLE 
URt 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO    THE   FIRST 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S 
PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


Oh,  thou !  in  Hellas  deem'd  of  heavenly  birth. 
Muse  !  form'd  or  fabled  at  the  minstrel's  will ! 
Since  shamed  full  oft  by  later  lyres  on  earth. 
Mine  dares  not  call  thee  from  thy  sacred  hill : 
Yet  there  I've  wander'd  by  thy  vaunted  rill ; 
Yes  !  sigh'd  o'er  Delphi's  long  deserted  shrine,* 
Where,  save  that  feeble  fountain,  all  is  still ; 
Nor  mote  my  shell  awake  the  weary  Nine 
To  grace  so  plain  a  tale  — this  lowly  lay  of  mine. 

n. 

Whilome  in  Albion's  isle  there  dwelt  a  youth. 
Who  ne  in  virtue's  ways  did  take  delight ; 
But  spent  his  days  in  riot  most  uncouth. 
And  vex'd  with  mirth  the  drowsy  ear  of  Night. 
Ah  me  !  in  sooth  he  was  a  shameless  wight, 
Sore  given  to  revel  and  ungodly  glee  ; 
Few  earthly  things  found  favor  in  his  sight 
Save  concubines  and  carnal  companie. 
And  flaunting  wassailers  of  high  and  low  degree. 
5 


6  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  [canto  i. 

III. 
Childe  Harold  was  he  hight :  —  but  whence  his  name 
And  lineage  long,  it  suits  me  not  to  say ; 
Suffice  it,  that  perchance  they  were  of  fame. 
And  had  been  glorious  in  another  day : 
But  one  sad  losel  soils  a  name  for  aye. 
However  mighty  in  the  olden  time ; 
Nor  all  that  heralds  rake  from  coffin'd  clay. 
Nor  florid  prose,  nor  honied  lies  of  rhyme. 
Can  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a  crime. 

IV. 

Childe  Harold  bask'd  him  in  the  noontide  sun, 
Disporting  there  like  any  other  fly. 
Nor  deem'd  before  his  little  day  was  done 
One  blast  might  chill  him  into  misery. 
But  long  ere  scarce  a  third  of  his  pass'd  by, 
Worse  than  adversity  the  Childe  befell ; 
He  felt  the  fulness  of  satiety  : 
Then  loathed  he  in  his  native  land  to  dwell. 
Which  seem'd  to  him  more  lone  than  Eremite's  sad 
cell. 

V. 

For  he  through  Sin's  long  labyrinth  had  run. 
Nor  made  atonement  when  he  did  amiss, 
Had  sigh'd  to  many  though  he  loved  but  one, 
And  that  loved  one,  alas  !  could  ne'er  be  his. 
Ah,  happy  she !  to  'scape  from  him  whose  kiss 
Had  been  pollution  unto  aught  so  chaste ; 
Who  soon  had  left  her  charms  for  vulgar  bliss. 
And  spoil'd  her  goodly  lands  to  gild  his  waste, 
Nor  calm  domestic  peace  had  ever  deign'd  to  taste. 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  7 

VI. 
And  now  Childe  Harold  was  sore  sick  at  heart, 
And  from  his  fellow  bacchanals  would  flee ; 
'Tis  said,  at  times  the  sullen  tear  would  start, 
But  Pride  congeal'd  the  drop  within  his  ee : 
Apart  he  stalk'd  in  joyless  reverie, 
And  from  his  native  land  resolved  to  go, 
And  visit  scorching  climes  beyond  the  sea ; 
With  pleasure  drugged,  he  almost  longed  for  woe. 
And  e'en  for  change  of  scene  would  seek  the  shades  ^ 
below. 

VII. 

The  Childe  departed  from  his  father's  hall : 
It  was  a  vast  and  venerable  pile  ; 
So  old,  it  seemed  only  not  to  fall, 
Yet  strength  was  pillar'd  in  each  massy  aisle. 
Monastic  dome  !  condemn'd  to  uses  vile  ! 
Where  Superstition  once  had  made  her  den 
Now  Paphian  girls  were  known  to  sing  and  smile  ; 
And  monks  might  deem  their  time  was  come  agen, 
If  ancient  tales  say  true,  nor  wrong  these  holy  men. 

VIII. 

Yet  oft-times  in  his  maddest  mirthful  mood 
Strange  pangs  would  flash  along  Childe  Harold's 

brow. 
As  if  the  memory  of  some  deadly  feud 
Or  disappointed  passion  lurk'd  below  : 
But  this  none  knew,  nor  haply  cared  to  know ; 
For  his  was  not  that  open,  artless  soul 
That  feels  relief  by  bidding  sorrow  flow. 


8  CHILD E  HAROLD'S  [canto  i. 

Nor  sought  he  friend  to  counsel  or  condole, 
Whate'er  this  grief  mote  be,  which  he  could  not 
control. 

IX. 

And  none  did  love  him  —  though  to  hall  and  bower 
He  gathered  revellers  from  far  and  near, 
He  knew  them  flatt'rers  of  the  festal  hour ; 
The  heartless  parasites  of  present  cheer. 
Yea!  none  did  love  him —  not  his  lemans  dear  — 
But  pomp  and  power  alone  are  woman's  care, 
And  where  these  are  light  Eros  finds  a  feere ; 
Maidens,  like  moths,  are  ever  caught  by  glare. 
And  Mammon  wins  his  way  where  Seraphs  might 
despair. 

X. 

Childe  Harold  had  a  mother —  not  forgot. 
Though  parting  from  that  mother  he  did  shun ; 
A  sister  whom  he  loved,  but  saw  her  not 
Before  his  weary  pilgrimage  begun : 
If  friends  he  had,  he  bade  adieu  to  none. 
Yet  deem  not  thence  his  breast  a  breast  of  steel : 
Ye,  who  have  known  what  'tis  to  dote  upon 
A  few  dear  objects,  will  in  sadness  feel 
Such  partings  break  the  heart  they  fondly  hope  to 
heal. 

XI. 

His  house,  his  home,  his  heritage,  his  lands. 
The  laughing  dames  in  whom  he  did  delight. 
Whose  large   blue   eyes,   fair  locks,   and  snowy 

hands, 
Might  shake  the  saintship  of  an  anchorite, 
And  long  had  fed  his  youthful  appetite ; 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  9 

His  goblets  brimm''d  with  every  costly  wine, 
And  all  that  mote  to  luxury  invite, 
Without  a  sigh  he  left,  to  cross  the  brine, 
And  traverse  Paynim  shores,  and  pass  Earth's  cen- 
tral line. 

XII. 

The  sails  were  fill'd,  and  fair  the  light  winds  blew, 
As  glad  to  waft  him  from  his  native  home ; 
And  fast  the  white  rocks  faded  from  his  view, 
And  soon  were  lost  in  circumambient  foam : 
And  then,  it  may  be,  of  his  wish  to  roam 
Repented  he ;  but  in  his  bosom  slept 
The  silent  thought,  nor  from  his  lips  did  come 
One  word  of  wail,  whilst  others  sate  and  wept. 
And  to  the  reckless  gales  unmanly  moaning  kept. 

XIII. 

But  when  the  sun  was  sinking  in  the  sea 
He  seized  his  harp,  which  he  at  times  could  string. 
And  strike,  albeit  with  untaught  melody. 
When  deem'd  he  no  strange  ear  was  listening : 
And  now  his  fingers  o'er  it  he  did  fling, 
And  tuned  his  farewell  in  the  dim  twilight. 
While  flew  the  vessel  on  her  snowy  wing. 
And  fleeting  shores  receded  from  his  sight, 
thus   to   the  elements  he  pour'd  his  last  "Good- 
Night." 

I. 

"Adieu,  adieu!  my  native  shore 
Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue ; 
The  Night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar, 
And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 


lO  CHILDE  HAROLD 'S  [canto  i. 

Yon  Sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight ; 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee, 

My  native  Land  —  Good-Night ! 

2. 

"A  few  short  hours  and  He  will  rise 

To  give  the  morrow  birth  ; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies, 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall, 

Its  hearth  is  desolate  ; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall ; 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 

3- 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page  ! ' 

Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billows'  rage. 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale  ? 
But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  thine  eye ; 

Our  ship  is  swift  and  strong : 
Our  fleetest  falcon  scarce  can  fly 

More  merrily  along." 

4- 
"  Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high, 

I  fear  not  wave  nor  wind  ; 
Yet  marvel  not,  Sir  Childe,  that  I 

Am  sorrowful  in  mind ;  * 
For  I  have  from  my  father  gone, 

A  mother  whom  I  love, 
And  have  no  friend,  save  these  alone. 

But  thee  -  and  one  above. 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  XI 

5- 
'*My  father  bless'd  me  fervently, 

Yet  did  not  much  complain  ; 
But  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh 

Till  I  come  back  again."  — 
"Enough,  enough,  my  little  lad! 

Such  tears  become  thine  eye ; 
If  I  thy  guileless  bosom  had, 

Mine  own  would  not  be  dry. 

6. 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  staunch  yeoman," 

Why  dost  thou  look  so  pale? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  a  French  foeman? 

Or  shiver  at  the  gale  ?  " 
"  Deem'st  thou  I  tremble  for  my  life? 

Sir  Childe,  I'm  not  so  weak ; 
But  thinking  on  an  absent  wife 

Will  blanch  a  faithful  cheek. 

7- 
"  My  spouse  and  boys  dwell  near  thy  hall. 

Along  the  bordering  lake. 
And  when  they  on  their  father  call. 

What  answer  shall  she  make  ? " 
♦'  Enough,  enough,  my  yeoman  good. 

Thy  grief  let  none  gainsay ; 
But  I,  who  am  of  lighter  mood. 

Will  laugh  to  flee  away. 

8. 
"  For  who  would  trust  the  seeming  sighs 

Of  wife  or  paramour? 
Fresh  feres  will  dry  the  bright  blue  eyes 

We  late  saw  streamin;^  o'er, 


12  CHILD E  HAROLD'S  [canto  i. 

For  pleasures  past  I  do  not  grieve, 

Nor  perils  gathering  near ; 
My  greatest  grief  is  that  I  leave 

No  thing  that  claims  a  tear. 

9- 

"And  now  I'm  in  the  world  alone, 

Upon  the  wide,  wide  sea : 
But  why  should  I  for  others  groan, 

When  none  will  sigh  for  me? 
Perchance  my  dog  will  whine  in  vain, 

Till  fed  by  stranger  hands  ; 
But  long  ere  I  come  back  again 

He'd  tear  me  where  he  stands. 


"  With  thee,  my  bark,  I'll  swiftly  go 

Athwart  the  foaming  brine  ; 
Nor  care  what  land  thou  bearst  me  to. 

So  not  again  to  mine. 
Welcome,  welcome,  ye  dark-blue  waves ! 

And  when  you  fail  my  sight. 
Welcome,  ye  deserts,  and  ye  caves  ! 

My  native  Land  —  Good-Night ! " 


On,  on  the  vessel  flies,  the  land  is  gone. 
And  winds  are  rude  in  Biscay's  sleepless  bay. 
Four  days  are  sped,  but  with  the  fifth,  anon. 
New  shores  descried  make  every  bosom  gay ; 
And  Cintra's  mountain  greets  them  on  their  way, 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  13 

And  Tagus  dashing  onward  to  the  deep, 
His  fabled  golden  tribute  bent  to  pay ; 
And  soon  on  board  the  Lusian  pilots  leap, 
And  steer  'twixt  fertile  shores  where  yet  few  rustics 
reap. 

XV. 

Oh,  Christ !  it  is  a  goodly  sight  to  see 
What  Heaven  hath  done  for  this  delicious  land ! 
What  fraits  of  fragrance  blush  on  every  tree ! 
What  goodly  prospects  o'er  the  hills  expand ! 
But  man  would  mar  them  with  an  impious  hand : 
And  when  the  Almighty  lifts  his  fiercest  scourge 
'Gainst  those  who  most  transgress  his  high  com- 
mand, 
With  treble  vengeance  will  his  hot  shafts  urge 
Gaul's  locust  host,  and   earth  from  fellest  foemen 
purge. 

XVI. 

What  beauties  doth  Lisboa  first  unfold ! 
Her  image  floating  on  that  noble  tide, 
Which  poets  vainly  pave  with  sands  of  gold. 
But  now  whereon  a  thousand  keels  did  ride 
Of  mighty  strength,  since  Albion  was  allied, 
And  to  the  Lusians  did  her  aid  afford : 
A  nation  swoln  with  ignorance  and  pride. 
Who  lick  yet  loathe  the  hand  that  waves  the  sword 
To  save  them  from  the  wrath  of  GauPs  unsparing 
lord. 

XVII. 

But  whoso  entereth  within  this  town. 
That,  sheening  far,  celestial  seems  to  be, 
Disconsolate  will  wander  up  and  down, 
Mid  many  things  unsightly  to  strange  ee ; 


14  Child E  harold's       [canto  i. 

For  hut  and  palace  show  like  filthily : 
The  dingy  denizens  are  rear'd  in  dirt ; 
Ne  personage  of  high  or  mean  degree 
Doth  care  for  cleanness  of  surtout  or  shirt, 
Though  shent  with   Egypt's   plague,  unkempt,  un- 
wash'd ;  unhurt. 

xvm. 

Poor,    paltry    slaves !    yet    born    midst    noblest 

scenes  — 
Why,  Nature,  waste  thy  wonders  on  such  men? 
Lo !  Cintra's  ^  glorious  Eden  intervenes 
In  variegated  maze  of  mount  and  glen. 
Ah,  me  !  what  hand  can  pencil  guide,  or  pen, 
To  follow  half  on  which  the  eye  dilates. 
Through  views  more  dazzling  unto  mortal  ken 
Than  those  whereof  such  things  the  bard  relates, 
Who  to  the  awe-struck  world  unlocked  Elysium's 

gates  ? 

XIX. 

The  horrid  crags,  by  toppling  convent  crown'd. 
The  cork-trees  hoar  that  clothe  the  shaggy  steep, 
The  mountain-moss  by  scorching  skies  imbrown'd, 
The   sunken   glen,  vjhose   sunless   shrubs   must 

weep. 
The  tender  azure  of  the  unruffled  deep, 
The  orange  tints  that  gild  the  greenest  bough, 
The  torrents  that  from  cliff  to  valley  leap. 
The  vine  on  high,  the  willow  branch  below, 
Mix'd    in  one    mighty  scene,  with    varied    beauty 
glow. 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  IS 

XX. 

Then  slowly  climb  the  many-winding  way. 
And  frequent  turn  to  linger  as  you  go, 
From  loftier  rocks  new  loveliness  survey, 
And  rest  ye  at  '*  Our  Lady's  house  of  woe  ;  "^^ 
Where  frugal  monks  their  little  relics  show. 
And  sundry  legends  to  the  stranger  tell : 
Here  impious  men  have  punish'd  been,  and  lo ! 
Deep  in  yon  cave  Honorius  long  did  dwell, 
In  hope  to  merit  Heaven  by  making  earth  a  Hell. 

XXI. 

And  here  and  there,  as  up  the  crags  you  spring, 
Mark  many  rude-carved  crosses  near  the  path  : 
Yet  deem  not  these  devotion's  offering  — 
These  are  memorials  frail  of  murderous  wrath : 
For  wheresoe'er  the  shrieking  victim  hath 
Pour'd  forth  his  blood  beneath  the  assassin's  knife. 
Some  hand  erects  a  cross  of  mouldering  lath  ; 
And  grove  and  glen  with  thousand  such  are  rife 

Throughout  this  purple  land,  where  law  secures  not 
life.8 

xxn. 
On  sloping  mounds,  or  in  the  vale  beneath. 
Are  domes  where  whilome  kings  did  make  repair ; 
But  now  the  wild-flowers  sound  them  only  breathe  ; 
Yet  ruin'd  splendour  still  is  lingering  there. 
And  yonder  towers  the  Prince's  palace  fair : 
There  thou  too,  Vathek !  ^  England's  wealthiest  son, 
Once  form'd  thy  Paradise,  as  not  aware 
When  wanton  Wealth  her  mightiest  deeds  hath 
done. 

Meek  Peace  voluptuous  lures  was  ever  wont  to  shun. 


r6  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  [canto  i 


Here  didst  thou  dwell,  here  schemes  of  pleasure  plan, 
Beneath  yon  mountain's  ever  beauteous  brow : 
But  now,  as  if  a  thing  unblest  by  Man, 
Thy  fairy  dwelling  is  as  lone  as  thou ! 
Here  giant  weeds  a  passage  scarce  allow 
To  halls  deserted,  portals  gaping  wide  ; 
Fresh  lessons  to  the  thinking  bosom,  how 
Vain  are  the  pleasaunces  on  earth  supplied  ; 
Swept  into  wrecks  anon  by  Time's  ungentle  tide  ! 

XXIV. 

Behold  the  hall  where  chiefs  were  late  convened !  ^^ 
Oh  !  dome  displeasing  unto  British  eye ! 
With  diadem  hight  foolscap,  lo  !  a  fiend, 
A  little  fiend  that  scoffs  incessantly, 
There  sits  in  parchment  robe  array'd,  and  by 
His  side  is  hung  a  seal  and  sable  scroll. 
Where  blazoned  glare  names  known  to  chivalry, 
And  sundry  signatures  adorn  the  roll. 
Whereat  the  Urchin  points  and  laughs  with  all  his 
soul. 

XXV. 

Convention  is  the  dwarfish  demon  styled 
That  foil'd  the  knights  in  Marialva's  dome : 
Of  brains  (if  brains  they  had)  he  them  beguiled, 
And  turn'd  a  nation's  shallow  joy  to  gloom. 
Here  Folly  dash'd  to  earth  the  victor's  plume. 
And  Policy  regain'd  what  arms  had  lost : 
For  chiefs  like  ours  in  vain  may  laurels  bloom ! 
Woe  to  the  conqu'ring,  not  the  conquer'd  host. 
Since  baffled  Triumph  droops  on  Lusitania's  coast ! 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  17 

XXVI. 

And  ever  since  that  martial  synod  met, 
Britannia  sickens,  Cintra  !  at  thy  name ; 
And  folks  in  office  at  the  mention  fret, 
And  fain  would  blush,  if  blush  they  could,  for  shame. 
How  will  posterity  the  deed  proclaim  ! 
Will  not  our  own  and  fellow-nations  sneer. 
To  view  these  champions  cheated  of  their  fame. 
By  foes  in  fight  overthrown,  yet  victors  here. 
Where  Scorn  her  finger  points  through  many  a  com- 
ing year? 

XXVII. 

So  deem'd  the  Childe,  as  o'er  the  mountains  he 
Did  take  his  way  in  solitary  guise : 
Sweet  was  the  scene,  yet  soon  he  thought  to  flee, 
More  restless  than  the  swallow  in  the  skies : 
Though  here  awhile  he  learn 'd  to  moralize, 
For  Meditation  fix'd  at  times  on  him ; 
And  conscious  Reason  whisper'd  to  despise 
His  early  youth,  misspent  in  maddest  whim ; 
But  as  he  gazed  on  truth  his  aching  eyes  grew  dim. 

XXVIII. 

To  horse !  to  horse  !  "  he  quits,  forever  quits 
A  scene  of  peace,  though  soothing  to  his  soul : 
Again  he  rouses  from  his  moping  fits. 
But  seeks  not  now  the  harlot  and  the  bowl. 
Onward  he  flies,  nor  fix'd  as  yet  the  goal 
Where  he  shall  rest  him  on  his  pilgrimage ; 
And  o'er  him  many  changing  scenes  must  roll 
Ere  toil  his  thirst  for  travel  can  assuage, 
Or  he  shall  calm  his  breast,  or  learn  experience  sage. 


l8  CHILDE  HAROLD 'S  [canto  i. 

XXIX. 

Yet  Mafra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay, 
Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Lusians'  luckless  queen ;  ^^ 
And  church  and  court  did  mingle  their  array, 
And  mass  and  revel  were  alternate  seen ; 
Lordlings  and  freres  —  ill-sorted  fry  I  ween  ! 
But  here  the  Babylonian  whore  hath  built  ^^ 
A  dome,  where  flaunts  she  in  such  glorious  sheen. 
That  men  forget  the  blood  which  she  hath  spilt, 
And  bow  the  knee  to  Pomp  that  loves  to  varnish  guilt. 

XXX. 

O'er  vales  that  teem  with  fruits,  romantic  hills, 
(Oh,  that  such  hills  upheld  a  freeborn  race  !) 
Whereon  to  gaze  the  eye  with  joyaunce  fills, 
Childe  Harold  wends  through  many  a  pleasant  place. 
Though  sluggards  deem  it  but  a  foolish  chase. 
And  marvel  men  should  quit  their  easy  chair, 
The  toilsome  way,  and  long,  long  league  to  trace ; 
Oh !  there  is  sweetness  in  the  mountain  air. 
And  life,  that  bloated  Ease  can  never  hope  to  share. 

XXXI. 

More  bleak  to  view  the  hills  at  length  recede, 

And,  less  luxuriant,  smoother  vales  extend; 

Immense  horizon-bounded  plains  succeed  ! 

Far  as  the  eye  discerns,  withouten  end, 

Spain's  realms  appear  whereon  her  shepherds  tend 

Flocks,  whose  rich   fleece  right  well  the   trader 

knows  — 
Now  must  the  pastor's  arm  his  lambs  defend. 
For  Spain  is  compass 'd  by  unyielding  foes. 
And  all  must  shield  their  all,  or  share  Subjection's  woes. 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  19 

xxxn. 

Where  Lusitania  and  her  Sister  meet, 
Deem  ye  what  bounds  the  rival  realms  divide? 
Or  ere  the  jealous  queens  of  nations  greet, 
Doth  Tayo  interpose  his  mighty  tide? 
Or  dark  Sierras  rise  in  craggy  pride  ? 
Or  fence  of  art,  like  China's  vasty  wall?  — 
Ne  barrier  wall,  ne  river  deep  and  wide, 
Ne  horrid  crags,  nor  mountains  dark  and  tall. 
Rise  like  the  rocks  that  part  Hispania's  land   from 
Gaul: 

XXXIII. 

But  these  between  a  silver  streamlet  glides, 
And  scarce  a  name  distinguisheth  the  brook. 
Though  rival  kingdoms  press  its  verdant  sides. 
Here  leans  the  idle  shepherd  on  his  crook, 
And  vacant  on  the  rippling  waves  doth  look. 
That  peaceful  still  'twixt  bitterest  foemen  flow ; 
For  proud  each  peasant  as  the  noblest  duke : 
Well  doth  the  Spanish  hind  the  difference  know 
'Twixt  him  and  Lusian  slave,  the  lowest  of  the  low.^* 

XXXIV. 

But  ere  the  mingling  bounds  have  far  been  pass'd, 
Dark  Guadiana  rolls  his  power  along 
In  sullen  billows,  murmuring  and  vast. 
So  noted  ancient  roundelays  among. ^^ 
Whilome  upon  his  banks  did  legions  throng 
Of  Moor  and  Knight,  in  mailed  splendor  drest : 
Here  ceased  the  swift  their  race,  here  sunk  the  strong; 
The  Paynim  turban  and  the  Christian  crest 
Mix'd  on  the  bleeding  stream,  by  floating  hosts  op- 
pressed. 


ao  CHILD E  HAROLD'S  [canto  i. 

XXXV. 

Oh,  lovely  Spain  !  renown'd,  romantic  land  ! 
Where  is  that  standard  which  Pelagio  bore, 
When  Cava's  traitor-sire  first  call'd  the  band 
That  dyed  thy  mountain  streams  with  Gothic  gore  ?  ^^ 
Where  are  those  bloody  banners  which  of  yore 
Waved  o'er  thy  sons,  victorious  to  the  gale, 
And  drove  at  last  the  spoilers  to  their  shore  ? 
Red  gleam'd  the  cross,  and  waned  the  crescent  pale, 
While  Afric's  echoes  thrill'd  with  Moorish  matrons' 
wail. 

XXX  VI. 

Teems  not  each  ditty  with  the  glorious  tale  ? 
Ah  !  such,  alas !  the  hero's  amplest  fate  ! 
When  granite  moulders  and  when  records  fail, 
A  peasant's  plaint  prolongs  his  dubious  date. 
Pride  !  bend  thine  eye  from  heaven  to  thine  estate. 
See  how  the  Mighty  shrink  into  a  song ! 
Can  Volume,  Pillar,  Pile,  preserve  thee  great? 
Or  must  thou  trust  Tradition's  simple  tongue. 

When  Flattery  sleeps  with  thee,  and  History  does 
thee  wrong? 

xxxvii. 
Awake,  ye  sons  of  Spain !  awake !  advance ! 
Lo !  Chivalry,  your  ancient  goddess,  cries  ; 
But  wields  not,  as  of  old,  her  thirsty  lance. 
Nor  shakes  her  crimson  plumage  in  the  skies  : 
Now  on  the  smoke  of  blazing  bolts  she  flies. 
And  speaks  in  thunder  through  yon  engine's  roar 
In  every  peal  she  calls —  "Awake !  arise  !" 
Say,  is  her  voice  more  feeble  than  of  yore, 

When  her  war-song  was  heard  on  Andalusia's  shore  ? 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  21 

XXXVIII. 
Hark !  heard  you  not  those  hoofs  of  dreadful  note  ? 
Sounds  not  the  clang  of  conflict  on  the  heath  ? 
Saw  ye  not  whom  the  reeking  sabre  smote ; 
Nor  saved  your  brethren  ere  they  sank  beneath 
Tyrants  and  tyrants'  slaves?  —  the  fires  of  death, 
The  bale-fires  flash  on  high  :  —  from  rock  to  rock 
Each  volley  tells  that  thousands  cease  to  breathe ; 
Death  rides  upon  the  sulphury  Siroc, 
Red  Battle  stamps   his   foot,  and  nations  feel  the 
shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo  !  where  the  Giant  on  the  mountain  stands, 
His  blood-red  tresses  deep'ning  in  the  sun, 
With  death-shot  glowing  in  his  fiery  hands. 
And  eye  that  scorcheth  all  it  glares  upon ; 
Restless  it  rolls,  now  fix'd,  and  now  anon 
Flashing  afar,  —  and  at  his  iron  feet 
Destruction  cowers,  to  mark  what  deeds  are  done ; 
For  on  this  morn  three  potent  nations  meet, 
To  shed  before  his  shrine  the  blood  he  deems  most 
sweet." 

XL. 

By  Heaven  !  it  is  a  splendid  sight  to  see 
(For  one  who  hath  no  friend,  no  brother  there) 
Their  rival  scarfs  of  mix'd  embroidery, 
Their  various  arms  that  glitter  in  the  air ! 
What  gallant  war-hounds  rouse  them  from  their  lair, 
And  gnash  their  fangs,  loud  yelling  for  the  prey ! 
All  join  the  chase,  but  few  the  triumph  share ; 
The  Grave  shall  bear  the  chiefest  prize  away, 
And  Havoc  scarce  for  joy  can  number  their  array. 


4a  CHILD E  HAROLD'S  [canto  i. 

XLI. 

Three  hosts  combine  to  offer  sacrifice ; 
Three  tongues  prefer  strange  orisons  on  high  ; 
Three  gaudy  standards  flout  the  pale  blue  skies  ; 
The  shouts  are  France,  Spain,  Albion,  Victory ! 
The  foe,  the  victim,  and  the  fond  ally 
That  fights  for  all,  but  ever  fights  in  vain, 
Are  met  —  as  if  at  home  they  could  not  die  — 
To  feed  the  crow  on  Talavera's  plain, 
And  fertilize  the  field  that  each  pretends  to  gain.^' 

XLII. 

There  shall  they  rot  —  Ambition's  honoured  fools ! 
Yes,  Honor  decks  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ! 
Vain  Sophistry !  in  these  behold  the  tools, 
The  broken  tools,  that  tyrants  cast  away 
By  myriads,  when  they  dare  to  pave  their  way 
With  human  hearts  —  to  what?  —  a  dream  alone. 
Can  despots  compass  aught  that  hails  their  sway  ? 
Or  call  with  truth  one  span  of  earth  their  own. 
Save  that   wherein   at  last   they  crumble  bone  by 
bone? 

XLIII. 

Oh,  Albuera,  glorious  field  of  grief! 
As  o'er  thy  plain  the  Pilgrim  prick'd  his  steed. 
Who  could  foresee  thee,  in  a  space  so  brief, 
A  scene  where  mingling  foes  should  boast  and  bleed ! 
Peace  to  the  perish'd  !  may  the  warrior's  meed 
And  tears  of  triumph  their  reward  prolong ! 
Till  others  fall  where  other  chieftains  lead. 
Thy  name  shall  circle  round  the  gaping  throng, 
And  shine  in  worthless  lays ,  the  theme  of  transient  song. 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  2$ 

XLIV. 

Enough  of  Battle's  minions  !  let  them  play 
Their  game  of  lives,  and  barter  breath  for  fame  : 
Fame  that  will  scarce  reanimate  their  clay. 
Though  thousands  fall  to  deck  some  single  name. 
In  sooth  'twere  sad  to  thwart  their  noble  aim 
Who  strike,  blest  hirelings!  for  their  country's  good, 
And  die,  that  living  might  have  proved  her  shame ; 
Perish'd  perchance,  in  some  domestic  feud, 
Or  in  a  narrower  sphere  wild  Rapine's  path  pursued 

XLV. 

Full  swiftly  Harold  wends  his  lonely  way 
Where  proud  Sevilla  ^^  triumphs  unsubdued  : 
Yet  is  she  free  —  the  spoiler's  wish'd-for  prey  ! 
Soon,  soon  shall  Conquest's  fiery  foot  intrude, 
Blackening  her  lovely  domes  with  traces  rude. 
Inevitable  hour !  'Gainst  fate  to  strive 
Where  Desolation  plants  her  famish'd  brood 
Is  vain,  or  Ilion,  Tyre  might  yet  survive. 
And  Virtue  vanquish  all,  and  Murder  cease  to  thrive. 

XLVI. 

But  all  unconscious  of  the  coming  doom, 

The  feast,  the  song,  the  revel  here  abounds ; 

Strange  modes  of  merriment  the  hours  consume, 

Norbleed  these  patriots  with  their  country's  wounds  -. 

Nor  here  War's  clarion,  but  Love's  rebeck  ^  sounds  ; 

Here  Folly  still  his  votaries  inthralls  ; 

And   young-eyed   Lewdness  walks   her   midnight 

rounds : 
Girt  with  the  silent  crimes  of  Capitals, 
Still  to  the  last  kind  Vice  clings  to  the  tott'ring  walls. 


24  CHILDE  HAROLD 'S  [canto  i. 

XLVII. 

Not  so  the  rustic  —  with  his  trembling  mate 
He  lurl<s,  nor  casts  his  heavy  eye  afar, 
Lest  he  should  view  his  vineyard  desolate, 
Blasted  below  the  dun  hot  breath  of  war. 
No  more  beneath  soft  Eve's  consenting  star 
Fandango  twirls  his  jocund  castanet : 
Ah,  monarchs !  could  ye  taste  the  mirth  ye  mar, 
Not  in  the  toils  of  Glory  would  ye  fret ; 
The   hoarse  dull   drum   would  sleep,  and  Man  be 
happy  yet ! 

XLVIII. 

How  carols  now  the  lusty  muleteer? 
Of  love,  romance,  devotion  is  his  lay, 
As  whilome  he  was  wont  the  leagues  to  cheer, 
His  quick  bells  wildly  jingling  on  the  way  ? 
No  !  as  he  speeds,  he  chants,  "Viva  el  Rey  !"^ 
And  checks  his  song  to  execrate  Godoy, 
The  royal  wittol  Charles,  and  curse  the  day 
When  first  Spain's  queen  beheld  the  black-eyed  boy, 
And  gore-faced  Treason  sprung  from  her  adulterate 
joy. 

XLIX. 

On  yon  long,  level  plain,  at  distance  crown'd 
With  crags,  whereon  those  Moorish  turrets  rest, 
Wide  scatter'd  hoof-marks  dint  the  wounded  ground  ; 
And,  scathed  by  fire,  the  greensward's  darken'd  vest 
Tells  that  the  foe  was  Andalusia's  guest : 
Here  was  the  camp,  the  watch-flame,  and  the  host, 
Here  the  bold  peasant  storm'd  the  dragon's  nest ; 
Still  does  he  mark  it  with  triumphant  boast, 
And  points  to  yonder  cliffs,  which  oft  were  won  and  lost. 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  25 

L. 

And  whomsoe'er  along  the  path  you  meet 
Bears  in  his  cap  the  badge  of  crimson  hue, 
Which  tells  you   whom   to   shun  and   whom   to 

greet : ^ 
Woe  to  the  man  that  walks  in  public  view 
Without  of  royalty  this  token  true : 
Sharp  is  the  knife,  and  sudden  is  the  stroke ; 
And  sorely  would  the  Gallic  foeman  rue. 
If  subtle  poniards,  wrapt  beneath  the  cloke. 
Could  blunt  the  sabre's  edge,  or  clear  the  cannon's 

smoke. 

LI. 

At  every  turn  Morena's  dusky  height 
Sustains  aloft  the  battery's  iron  load ; 
And,  far  as  mortal  eye  can  compass  sight, 
The  mountain-howitzer,  the  broken  road, 
The  bristling  palisade,  the  fosse  o'erflow'd, 
The  station'd  bands,  the  never- vacant  watch. 
The  magazine  in  rocky  durance  stow'd. 
The  holster'd  steed  beneath  the  shed  of  thatch. 
The  ball-piled  pyramid,^  the  ever-blazing  match, 

LII. 

Portend  the  deeds  to  come  :  —  but  he  whose  nod 
Has  tumbled  feebler  despots  from  their  sway, 
A  moment  pauseth  ere  he  lifts  the  rod ; 
A  little  moment  deigneth  to  delay : 
Soon  will  his  legions  sweep  through  these  their  way  ; 
The  West  must  own  the  Scourger  of  the  world. 
Ah !  Spain  !  how  sad  will  be  thy  reckoning-day. 
When  soars  Gaul's  Vulture,  with  his  wings  unfurl'd. 
And  thoushalt  view  thy  sons  in  crowds  to  Hades  hurl'd. 


36  CHILDE   HAROLD'S  [canto  i. 

LIII. 

And  must  they  fall  ?  the  young,  the  proud,  the  brave. 
To  swell  one  bloated  Chief's  unwholesome  reign? 
No  step  between  submission  and  a  grave? 
The  rise  of  rapine  and  the  fall  of  Spain? 
And  doth  the  Power  that  man  adores  ordain 
Their  doom,  nor  heed  the  suppliant's  appeal? 
Is  all  that  desperate  Valor  acts  in  vain? 
And  Counsel  sage,  and  patriotic  Zfeal, 
The  Veteran's  skill.  Youth's  fire,  and  Manhood's  heart 
of  steel? 

LIV. 

Is  it  for  this  the  Spanish  maid,  aroused, 
Hangs  on  the  willow  her  unstrung  guitar, 
And,  all  unsex'd,  the  anlace  hath  espoused. 
Sung  the  loud  song,  and  dared  the  deed  of  war? 
And  she,  whom  once  the  semblance  of  a  scar 
Appall'd,  an  owlet's  larum  chill'd  with  dread. 
Now  views  the  column-scattering  bayonet  jar. 
The  falchion  flash,  and  o'er  the  yet  warm  dead 
Stalks  with  Minerva's  step  where  Mars  might  quake 
to  tread. 

LV. 

Ye  who  shall  marvel  when  you  hear  her  tale, 
Oh !  had  you  known  her  in  her  softer  hour, 
Mark'd  her  black  eye  that  mocks  her  coal-black  veil. 
Heard  her  light,  lively  tones  in  Lady's  bower. 
Seen  her  long  locks  that  foil  the  painter's  power, 
Her  fairy  form,  with  more  than  female  grace, 
Scarce  would  you  deem  that  Saragoza's  tower 
Beheld  her  smile  in  Danger's  Gorgon  face, 
Thin  the  closed  ranks,  and  lead  in  Glory's  fearful  chase. 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  27 

LVI. 

Her  lover  sinks  —  she  sheds  no  ill-timed  tear; 
Her  chief  is  slain  —  she  fills  his  fatal  post ; 
Her  fellows  flee  —  she  checks  their  base  career ; 
The  foe  retires  —  she  heads  the  sallying  host : 
Who  can  appease  like  her  a  lover's  ghost? 
Who  can  avenge  so  well  a  leader's  fall  ? 
What  maid  retrieve  when  man's  flush'd  hope  is  lost  ? 
Who  hang  so  fiercely  on  the  flying  Gaul, 
Foil'd  by  a  woman's  hand,  before  a  batter'd  wall?^ 

LVII. 

Yet  are  Spain's  maids  no  race  of  Amazons, 
But  form'd  for  all  the  witching  arts  of  love : 
Though  thus  in  arms  they  emulate  her  sons, 
And  in  the  horrid  phalanx  dare  to  move, 
'Tis  but  the  tender  fierceness  of  the  dove, 
Pecking  the  hand  that  hovers  o'er  her  mate : 
In  softness  as  in  firmness  far  above 
Remoter  females,  famed  for  sickening  prate ; 
Her  mind  is  nobler  sure,  her  charms  perchance  as 
great. 

LVIII. 

The  seal  Love's  dimpling  finger  hath  impress'd 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chin  which  bears  his  touch  :  ^^ 
Her  lips,  whose  kisses  pout  to  leave  their  nest, 
Bid  man  be  valiant  ere  he  merit  such : 
Her  glance  how  wildly  beautiful !  how  much 
Hath  Phoebus  woo'd  in  vain  to  spoil  her  cheek. 
Which  glows  yet  smoother  from  his  amorous  clutch ! 
Who  round  the  North  for  paler  dames  would  seek? 
How  poor  their  forms  appear!   how  languid,  wan, 
and  weak ! 


28  CHILDE  HAROLD'S          [canto  i. 

LIX. 

Match  me,  ye  climes !  which  poets  love  to  laud ; 
Match  me,  ye  harems  of  the  land !  where  now 
I  strike  my  strain,  far  distant,  to  applaud 
Beauties  that  ev'n  a  cynic  must  avow ; 
Match  me  those  Houries,  whom  ye  scarce  allow 
To  taste  the  gale  lest  Love  should  ride  the  wind. 
With   Spain's   dark-glancing   daughters^  —  deign 

to  know. 
There  your  wise  Prophet's  paradise  we  find, 
His  black-eyed  maids  of  Heaven,  angelically  kind. 

LX. 

Oh,  thou  Parnassus  ^^  whom  I  now  survey, 
Not  in  the  phrensy  of  a  dreamer's  eye, 
Not  in  the  fabled  landscape  of  a  lay. 
But  soaring  snow-clad  through  thy  native  sky, 
In  the  wild  pomp  of  mountain  majesty ! 
What  marvel  if  I  thus  essay  to  sing? 
The  humblest  of  thy  pilgrims  passing  by 
Would  gladly  woo  thine  Echoes  with  his  string. 
Though  from  thy  heights  no  more  one  Muse  will 
wave  her  wing. 

LXI. 

Oft  have  I  dream'd  of  Thee  !  whose  glorious  name 
Who  knows  not,  knows  not  man's  divinest  lore : 
And  now  I  view  thee,  'tis,  alas  !  with  shame 
That  I  in  feeblest  accents  must  adore. 
When  I  recount  thy  worshippers  of  yore 
I  tremble,  and  can  only  bend  the  knee ; 
Nor  raise  my  voice,  nor  vainly  dare  to  soar. 
But  gaze  beneath  thy  cloudy  canopy 
In  silent  joy  to  think  at  last  I  look  on  Thee !  ^ 


CANTO  I.J  PILGRIMAGE.  29 

LXII. 

Happier  in  this  than  mightiest  bards  have  been, 
Whose  fate  to  distant  lands  confined  their  lot, 
Shall  I  unmoved  behold  the  hallow'd  scene, 
Which  others  rave  of,  though  they  know  it  not? 
Though  here  no  more  Apollo  haunts  his  grot, 
And  thou,  the  Muses'  seat,  art  now  their  grave,'" 
Some  gentle  spirit  still  pervades  the  spot, 
Sighs  in  the  gale,  keeps  silence  in  the  cave. 
And  glides  with  glassy  feet  o'er  yon  melodious  wave. 

LXIII. 

Of  thee  hereafter.  —  Even  amidst  my  strain 
I  turn'd  aside  to  pay  my  homage  here ; 
Forgot  the  land,  the  sons,  the  maids  of  Spain  ; 
Her  fate,  to  every  freeborn  bosom  dear ; 
And  hail'd  thee,  not  perchance  without  a  tear. 
Now  to  my  theme  —  but  from  thy  holy  haunt 
Let  me  some  remnant,  some  memorial  bear; 
Yield  me  one  leaf  of  Daphne's  deathless  plant, 
Nor  let  thy  votary's  hope  be  deem'd  an  idle  vaunt. 

LXIV. 

But  ne'er  didst  thou,  fair  Mount!  when  Greece 

was  young. 
See  round  thy  gaint  base  a  brighter  choir. 
Nor  e'er  did  Delphi,  when  her  priestess  sung 
The  Pythian  hymn  with  more  than  mortal  fire. 
Behold  a  train  more  fitting  to  inspire 
The  song  of  love  than  Andalusia's  maids, 
Nurst  in  the  glowing  lap  of  soft  desire  : 
Ah  !  that  to  these  were  given  such  peaceful  shades 
As  Greece   can  still  bestow,   though  Glory  fly  her 

glades. 


30  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  [canto  i. 


Fair  is  proud  Seville  ;  let  her  country  boast 
Her  strength,  wealth,  her  site  of  ancient  days;  ^ 
But  Cadiz,  rising  on  the  distant  coast, 
Calls  forth  a  sweeter,  though  ignoble  praise. 
Ah,  Vice  !  how  soft  art  thy  voluptuous  ways  ! 
While  boyish  blood  is  mantling,  who  can  'scape 
The  fascination  of  thy  magic  gaze  ? 
A  Cherub-hydra  round  us  dost  thou  gape, 
And  mould  to  every  taste  thy  dear  delusive  shape. 

LXVI. 

When  Paphos  fell  by  time  —  accursed  Time ! 
The  queen  who  conquers  all  must  yield  to  thee  — 
The  Pleasures  flee,  but  sought  as  warm  a  clime ; 
And  Venus,  constant  to  her  native  sea, 
To  naught  else  constant,  hither  deign'd  to  flee ; 
And  fix'd  her  shrine  within  these  walls  of  white ; 
Though  not  to  one  dome  circumscribeth  she 
Her  worship,  but,  devoted  to  her  rite, 
A  thousand  altars  rise,  for  ever  blazing  bright. *i 

LXVII. 

From  morn  till  night,  from  night  till  startled  Morn 
Peeps  blushing  on  the  revel's  laughing  crew. 
The  song  is  heard,  the  rosy  garland  worn ; 
Devices  quaint,  and  frolics  ever  new, 
Tread  on  each  other's  kibes.     A  long  adieu 
He  bids  to  sober  joy  that  here  sojourns  : 
Naught  interrupts  the  riot,  though  in  lieu 
Of  true  devotion  monkish  incense  burns. 
And  love  and  prayer  unite,  or  rule  the  hour  by  turns. 


CANTO  i.j  PILGRIMAGE.  31 

LXVIII. 

The  Sabbath  comes,  a  day  of  blessed  rest ; 
What  hallows  it  upon  this  Christian  shore? 
Lo !  it  is  sacred  to  a  solemn  feast ; 
Hark !  heard  you  not  the  forest-monarch's  roar  ? 
Crashing  the  lance,  he  snufFs  the  spouting  gore 
Of  man  and  stefed,  o'erthrown  beneath  his  horn  ; 
The  throng'd  arena  shakes  with  shouts  for  more  ; 
Yells  the  mad  crowd  o'er  entrails  freshly  torn, 
Nor  shrinks  the  female  eye,  nor  even  affects  to  mourn. 

LXIX. 

The  seventh  day  this ;  the  jubilee  of  man. 
London !  right  well  thou  know'st  the  day  of  prayer : 
Then  thy  spruce  citizen,  wash'd  artisan, 
And  smug  apprentice  gulp  their  weekly  air : 
Thy  coach  of  hackney,  whiskey,  one-horse  chair. 
And  humblest  gig  through  sundry  suburbs  whirl ; 
To  Hampstead,  Brentford,  Harrow  make  repair; 
Till  the  tired  jade  the  wheel  forgets  to  hurl, 
Provoking  envious  gibe  from  each  pedestrian  churl. *^ 

LXX. 

Some  o'er  thy  Thamis  row  the  ribbo^'d  fair, 

Others  along  the  safer  turnpike  fly ; 

Some  Richmond-hill  ascend,  some  scud  to  Ware, 

And  many  to  the  steep  of  Highgate  hie. 

Ask  ye,  Boeotian  shades  !  the  reason  why?** 

'Tis  the  worship  of  the  solemn  Horn, 

Grasp'd  in  the  holy  hand  of  Mystery, 

In  whose  dread  name  both  men  and  maids  are 

sworn, 
And  consecrate  the  oath  with  draught,  and  dance 

till  morn.** 


32  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  I. 

LXXI. 

All  have  their  fooleries  —  not  alike  are  thine, 
Fair  Cadiz,  rising  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea ! 
Soon  as  the  matin  bell  proclaimeth  nine. 
Thy  saint-adorers  count  the  rosary : 
Much  is  the  Virgin  teased  to  shrive  them  free 
(Well  do  I  ween  the  only  virgin  there) 
From  crimes  as  numerous  as  her  beadsmen  be ; 
Then  to  the  crowded  circus  forth  they  fare : 
Young,  old,  high,  low,  at  once  the  same  diversion 
share. 

LXXII. 

The  lists  are  oped,  the  spacious  area  clear'd, 
Thousands  on  thousands  piled  are  seated  around ; 
Long  ere  the  first  loud  trumpet's  note  is  heard, 
No  vacant  space  for  lated  wight  is  found : 
Here  dons,  grandees,  but  chiefly  dames  abound, 
Skill'd  in  the  ogle  of  a  roguish  eye. 
Yet  ever  well  inclined  to  heal  the  wound ; 
None  through  their  cold  disdain  are  doom'd  to  die. 
As    moon-struck    bards    complain,   by   Love's    sad 
archery. 

LXXIII. 

Hush'd  is  the  din  of  tongues  —  on  gallant  steeds. 
With  milk-white  crest,  gold  spur,  and  light- pois'd 

lance, 
Four  cavaliers  prepared  for  venturous  deeds. 
And  lowly  bending  to  the  lists  advance  ; 
Rich  are  their  scarfs,  their  chargers  featly  prance  : 
If  in  the  dangerous  game  they  shine  to-day, 
The  crowd's  loud  shout  and  ladies'  lovely  glance. 
Best  prize  of  better  acts,  they  bear  away, 
And  all  that  kings  or  chiefs  e'er  gain  their  toils  repay. 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  33 

LXXIV. 

In  costly  sheen  and  gaudy  cloak  array'd, 
But  all  afoot,  the  light-limb'd  Matadore 
Stands  in  the  centre,  eager  to  invade 
The  lord  of  lowing  herds  ;  but  not  before 
The  ground,  with  cautious  tread,  is  traversed  o'er. 
Lest  aught  unseen  should  lurk  to  thwart  his  speed : 
His  arms  a  dart,  he  fights  aloof,  nor  more 
Can  man  achieve  without  the  friendly  steed  — 
Alas !  too  oft  condemned  for  him  to  bear  and  bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice  sounds  the  clarion  ;  lo !  the  signal  falls. 
The  den  expands,  and  Expectation  mute 
Gapes  round  the  silent  circle's  peopled  walls. 
Bounds  with  one  lashing  spring  the  mighty  brute, 
And,  wildly  staring,  spurns,  with  sounding  foot. 
The  sand,  nor  blindly  rushes  on  his  foe  : 
Here,  there,  he  points  his  threatening  front,  to  suit 
His  first  attack,  wide  waving  to  and  fro 
His  angry  tail ;  red  rolls  his  eye's  dilated  glow. 

LXXVI. 

Sudden  he  stops  ;  his  eye  is  fix'd :  away. 
Away,  thou  heedless  boy !  prepare  the  spear : 
Now  is  thy  time,  to  perish,  or  display 
The  skill  that  yet  may  check  his  mad  career. 
With  well-timed  croupe  the  nimble  coursers  veer; 
On  foams  the  bull,  but  not  unscathed  he  goes ; 
Streams  from  his  flank  the  crimson  torrent  clear : 
He  flies,  he  wheels,  distracted  with  his  throes ; 
Dart  follows  dart ;   lance,   lance ;   loud    bellowings 
speak  his  woes. 


34  CHILD E  HAROLD'S         [canto  i. 

LXXVII. 

Again  he  comes  ;  nor  dart  nor  lance  avail, 
Nor  the  wild  plunging  of  the  tortured  horse ; 
Though  man  and  man's  avenging  arms  assail. 
Vain  are  his  weapons,  vainer  is  his  force. 
One  gallant  steed  is  stretch 'd  a  mangled  corse ; 
Another,  hideous  sight !  unseam'd  appears. 
His  gory  chest  unveils  life's  panting  source ; 
Though    death-struck,   still   his   feeble   frame   he 

rears ; 
Staggering,  but  stemming  all,  his  lord  unharm'd  he 

bears. 

LXXVIII. 

Foil'd,  bleeding,  breathless,  furious  to  the  last. 

Full  in  the  centre  stands  the  bull  at  bay. 

Mid  wounds,  and  clinging  darts,  and  lances  brast, 

And  foes  disabled  in  the  brutal  fray : 

And  now  the  Matadores  around  him  play, 

Shake  the  red  cloak,  and  poise  the  ready  brand : 

Once  more  through  all  he  bursts  his  thundering 

way  — 
Vain  rage!  the  mantle  quits  the  conynge  hand, 
Wraps  his  fierce  eye  —  'tis  past  —  he  sinks  upon  the 
sand !  * 

LXXIX. 

Where  his  vast  neck  just  mingles  with  the  spine. 

Sheathed  in  his  form  the  deadly  weapon  lies, 

He  stops  —  he  starts  —  disdaining  to  decline  : 

Slowly  he  falls,  amidst  triumphant  cries, 

Without  a  groan,  without  a  struggle  dies. 

The  decorated  car  appears  —  on  high 

The  corse  is  piled — sweet  sight  for  vulgar  eyes  — 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  35 

Four  steeds  that  spurn  the  rein,  as  swift  as  shy. 
Hurl  the  dark  bulk  along,  scarce  seen  in  dashing  by. 

LXXX. 

Such  the  ungentle  sport  that  oft  invites 
The  Spanish  maid,  and  cheers  the  Spanish  swain. 
Nurtured  in  blood  betimes,  his  heart  delights 
In  vengeance,  gloating  on  another's  pain. 
What  private  feuds  the  troubled  village  stain ! 
Though  now  one  phalanx'd  host  should  meet  the  foe, 
Enough,  alas  !  in  humble  homes  remain. 
To  meditate  'gainst  friends  the  secret  blow, 
For  some  slight  cause  of  wrath,  whence  life's  warm 
stream  must  flow. 

LXXXI. 

But  Jealousy  has  fled  :  his  bars,  his  bolts, 
His  wither'd  sentinel.  Duenna  sage  ! 
And  all  whereat  the  generous  soul  revolts, 
Which  the  stern  dotard  deem'd  he  could  encage 
Have  pass'd  to  darkness  with  the  vanished  age. 
Who  late  so  free  as  Spanish  girls  were  seen 
(Ere  War  uprose  in  his  volcanic  rage) , 
With  braided  tresses,  bounding  o'er  the  green, 
While  on  the  gay  dance  shone  Night's  lover-loving 
Queen  ? 

LXXXII. 

Oh  !  many  a  time,  and  oft,  had  Harold  loved. 
Or  dream'd  he  loved,  since  Rapture  is  a  dream ; 
But  now  his  wayward  bosom  was  unmoved. 
For  not  yet  had  he  drunk  of  Lethe's  stream ; 
And  lately  had  he  learn'd  with  truth  to  deem 
Love  has  no  gift  so  grateful  as  his  wings : 


36  CHILDE  HAROLD 'S         [canto  i. 

How  fair,  how  young,  how  soft  soe'er  he  seem. 
Full  from  the  fount  of  Joy's  delicious  springs 
Some  bitter  o'er  the   flowers  its   bubbling   venom 
flings. 

LXXXIII. 

Yet  to  the  beauteous  form  he  was  not  blind. 
Though  now  it  moved  him  as  it  moves  the  wise ; 
Not  that  Philosophy  on  such  a  mind 
E'er  deign'd  to  bend  her  chastely-awful  eyes  : 
But  Passion  raves  itself  to  rest,  or  flies  ; 
And  Vice,  that  digs  her  own  voluptuous  tomb, 
Had  buried  long  his  hopes,  no  more  to  rise : 
Pleasure's  pall'd  victim  !  life-abhorring  gloom 
Wrote  on   his   faded  brow  curst   Cain's   unresting 
doom. 

LXXXIV. 

Still  he  beheld,  nor  mingled  with  the  throng ; 
But  view'd  them  not  with  misanthropic  hate : 
Fain  would  he  now   have  join'd  the  dance,  the 

song; 
But  who  may  smile  that  sinks  beneath  his  fate  ? 
Naught  that  he  saw  his  sadness  could  abate : 
Yet  once  he  struggled  'gainst  the  demon's  sway. 
And  as  in  Beauty's  bower  he  pensive  sate, 
Pour'd  forth  this  unpremeditated  lay. 
To  charms  as  fair  as  those  that  soothed  his  happier 

day. 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  37 

TO  INEZ. 


Nay,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow ; 

Alas  !  I  cannot  smile  again : 
Yet  Heaven  avert  that  ever  thou 

Shouldst  weep,  and  haply  weep  in  vain, 

2. 
And  dost  thou  ask,  what  secret  woe 

I  bear,  corroding  joy  and  youth  ? 
And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  to  know 

A  pang,  even  thou  must  fail  to  soothe? 

3- 

It  is  not  love,  it  is  not  hate. 
Nor  low  Ambition's  honors  lost. 

That  bids  me  loathe  my  present  state. 
And  fly  from  all  I  prized  the  most : 

4- 
It  is  that  weariness  which  springs 

From  all  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see : 
To  me  no  pleasure  Beauty  brings ; 

Thine  eyes  have  scarce  a  charm  for  me. 

S- 
It  is  that  settled,  ceaseless  gloom 

The  fabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore; 
That  will  not  look  beyond  the  tomb, 

But  cannot  hope  for  rest  before. 


38  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  [canto  i. 

6. 

What  Exile  from  himself  can  flee? 

To  zones,  though  more  and  more  remote. 
Still,  still  pursues,  where-e'er  I  be. 

The  blight  of  life  —  the  demon  Thought. 

7- 
Yet  others  rapt  in  pleasure  seem. 

And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake ; 
Oh  !  may  they  still  of  transport  dream, 

And  ne'er,  at  least  like  me,  awake ! 

8. 

Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to  go, 
With  many  a  retrospection  curst ; 

And  all  my  solace  is  to  know, 
Whate'er  betides,  I've  known  the  worst. 

9- 
What  is  that  worst?    Nay  do  not  ask  — 

In  pity  from  the  search  forbear : 
Smile  on  —  nor  venture  to  unmask 

Man's  heart,  and  view  the  Hell  that's  there. 

LXXXV. 

Adieu,  fair  Cadiz !  yea,  a  long  adieu ! 

Who     may    forget    how    well    thy    walls    have 

stood  ? 
When  all  were  changing  thou  alone  wert  true, 
First  to  be  free  and  last  to  be  subdued  : 
And  if  amidst  a  scene,  a  shock  so  rude, 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  39 

Some  native  blood  was  seen  thy  streets  to  dye ; 
A  traitor  only  fell  beneath  the  feud  :  8« 
Here  all  were  noble,  save  Nobility ; 
None  hugg'd  a  conqueror's  chain,  save  fallen  Chiv- 
alry! 

LXXXVI. 

Such  be  the  sons  of  Spain,  and  strange  her  fate ! 
They  fight  for  freedom  who  were  never  free  ; 
A  Kingless  people  for  a  nerveless  state, 
Her  vassals  combat  when  their  chieftains  flee, 
•  True  to  the  veriest  slaves  of  Treachery : 
Fond  of  a  land  which  gave  them  naught  but  life, 
Pride  points  the  path  that  leads  to  Liberty ; 
Back  to  the  struggle,  baffled  in  the  strife. 
War,  war  is  still  the  cry,  "  War  even  to  the  knife  I"^'' 

LXXXVII. 

Ye,  who  would  more  of  Spain  and  Spaniards  know, 
Go,  read  whate'er  is  writ  of  bloodiest  strife : 
Whatever  keen  Vengeance  urged  on  foreign  foe 
Can  act,  is  acting  there  against  man's  life : 
From  flashing  scimitar  to  secret  knife, 
War  mouldeth  there  each  weapon  to  his  need  — 
So  may  he  guard  the  sister  and  the  wife. 
So  may  he  make  each  curst  oppressor  bleed. 
So  may  such  foes  deserve  the  most   remorseless 
deed ! 

LXXXVIII. 

Flows  there  a  tear  of  pity  for  the  dead? 
Look  o'er  the  ravage  of  the  reeking  plain ; 
Look  on  the  hands  with  female  slaughter  red ; 
Then  to  the  dogs  resign  the  unburied  slain, 


40  CHILD E  HAROLD'S         [canto  I. 

Then  to  the  vulture  let  each  corse  remain : 

Albeit  unworthy  of  the  prey-bird's  maw, 

Let  their  bleach'd  bones,  and  blood's  unbleaching 

stain, 
Long  mark  the  battle-field  with  hideous  awe : 
Thus  only  may  our  sons  conceive  the  scenes  we  saw  ! 

LXXXIX. 

Nor  yet,  alas  !  the  dreadful  work  is  done ; 
Fresh  legions  pour  adown  the  Pyrenees  : 
It  deepens  still,  the  work  is  scarce  begun, 
Nor  mortal  eye  the  distant  end  foresees. 
Fall'n  nations  gaze  on  Spain;  if  freed,  she  frees 
More  than  her  fell  Pizarros  once  enchain'd : 
Strange  retribution  !  now  Columbia's  ease 
Repairs  the  wrongs  that  Quito's  sons  sustain'd. 

While   o'er  the  parent  clime  prowls   Murder  unre- 
strain'd. 

xc. 
Not  all  the  blood  at  Talavera  shed. 
Not  all  the  marvels  of  Barossa's  fight,' 
Not  Albuera,  lavish  of  the  dead, 
Have  won  for  Spain  her  well  asserted  right. 
When  shall  her  Olive-Branch  be  free  from  blight? 
When  shall  she  breathe  her  from  the  blushing  toil  ? 
How  many  a  doubtful  day  shall  sink  in  night. 
Ere  the  Frank  robber  turn  him  from  his  spoil. 

And  Freedom's  stranger-tree  grow  native  of  the  soil ! 

xci. 
And  thou,  my  friend  !  ^^  —  since  unavailing  woe 
Bursts  from  my  heart,  and  mingles  with  the  strain — 


CANTO  I.]  PILGRIMAGE.  41 

Had  the  sword  laid  thee  with  the  mighty  low, 
Pride  might  forbid  e'en  Friendship  to  complain : 
But  thus  unlaurel'd  to  descend  in  vain, 
By  all  forgotten,  save  the  lonely  breast, 
And  mix  unbleeding  with  the  boasted  slain. 
While  Glory  crowns  so  many  a  meaner  crest ! 
What   hadst   thou    done    to   sink   so  peacefully   to 
rest? 

XCII. 

Oh,  known  the  earliest,  and  esteemed  the  most ! 
Dear    to    a    heart    where    naught    was    left    so 

dear! 
Though  to  my  hopeless  days  for  ever  lost. 
In  dreams  deny  me  not  to  see  thee  here ! 
And  Morn  in  secret  shall  renew  the  tear 
Of  Consciousness  awaking  to  her  woes. 
And  Fancy  hover  o'er  thy  bloodless  bier. 
Till  my  frail  frame  return  to  whence  it  rose. 
And  mourn'd  and  mourner  lie  united  in  repose. 

XCIII. 

Here  is  one  fytte  of  Harold's  pilgrimage : 
Ye  who  of  him  may  further  seek  to  know. 
Shall  find  some  tidings  in  a  future  page. 
If  he  that  rhymeth  now  may  scribble  moe. 
Is  this  too  much  ?  stern  Critic !  say  not  so : 
Patience !  and  ye  shall  hear  what  he  beheld 
In  other  lands,  where  he  was  doom'd  to  go : 
Lands  that  contain  the  monuments  of  Eld, 
Ere  Greece  and  Grecian  arts  by  barbarous  hands  were 
cjuell'd. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO    THE   SECOND. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S 
PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO   THE   SECOND. 

I. 
Come,  blue-eyed  maid  of  heaven  !  —  but  thou,  alas ! 
Didst  never  yet  one  mortal  song  inspire  — 
Goddess  of  Wisdom  !  here  thy  temple  vi^as. 
And  is,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire,^ 
And  years,  that  bade  thy  worship  to  expire : 
But  worse  than  steel,  and  flame,  and  ages  slow, 
Is  the  dread  sceptre  and  dominion  dire 
Of  men  who  never  felt  the  sacred  glow 
That  thoughts  of  thee  and  thine  on  polish'd  breasts 
bestow. 

II. 
Ancient  of  days !  august  Athena !  where. 
Where  are  thy  men  of  might  ?  thy  grand  in  soul  ? 
Gone  —  glimmering  through  the  dream  of  things 

that  were : 
First  in  the  race  that  led  to  Glory's  goal, 
They  won,  and  pass'd  away  —  is  this  the  whole? 
A  schoolboy's  tale,  the  wonder  of  an  hour ! 
The  warrior's  weapon  and  the  sophist's  stole 
Are  sought  in  vain,  and  o'er  each  mouldering  tower, 
Dim  with  the  mist  of  years,  gray  flits  the  shade  of 
power. 

45 


46  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  il 

III. 
Son  of  the  morning,  rise !  approach  you  here ! 
Come  —  but  molest  not  yon  defenceless  urn : 
Loolc  on  this  spot  — a  nation's  sepulchre  ! 
Abode  of  gods,  whose  shrines  no  longer  burn. 
Even  gods  must  yield  —  religions  take  their  turn  : 
'Twas  Jove's  —  'tis  Mahomet's  —  and  other  creeds 
Will  rise  with  other  years,  till  man  shall  learn 
Vainly  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds ; 
Poor  child  of  Doubt  and  Death,  whose  hope  is  built 
on  reeds. 

IV. 

Bound  to  the  earth,  he  lifts  his  eye  to  heaven  — 
Is't  not  enough,  unhappy  thing !  to  know 
Thou  art?     Is  this  a  boon  so  kindly  given, 
That  being,  thou  would'st  be  again,  and  go. 
Thou  know'st  not,  reck'st  not  to  what  region,  so 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies? 
Still  wilt  thou  dream  on  future  joy  and  woe  ? 
Regard  and  weigh  yon  dust  before  it  flies : 
That  little  urn  saith  more  than  thousand  homilies. 

V. 

Or  burst  the  vanish'd  Hero's  lofty  mound ; 
Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps  :  ^ 
He  fell,  and  falling  nations  mourn'd  around ; 
But  now  not  one  of  saddening  thousands  weeps. 
Nor  warlike-worshipper  his  vigil  keeps 
Where  demi-gods  appear'd,  as  records  tell. 
Remove  yon  skull  from  out  the  scatter'd  heaps : 
Is  that  a  temple  where  a  God  may  dwell  ? 
Why  ev'n  the  worm  at  last  disdains  her  shatter'd  cell  1 


CANTO  II.]  PILGRIMAGE,  47 

VI. 

Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  ruin'd  wall, 
Its  chambers  desolate,  and  portals  foul : 
Yes,  this  was  once  Ambition's  airy  hall, 
The  dome  of  Thought,  the  palace  of  the  Soul : 
Behold  through  each  lack-lustre,  eyeless  hole, 
The  gay  recess  of  Wisdom  and  of  Wit, 
And  Passion's  host,  that  never  brook'd  control : 
Can  all  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ, 
People  this  lonely  tower,  this  tenement  refit  ? 

VII. 

Well  didst  thou  speak,  Athena's  wisest  son ! 
"  All  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known." 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  what  we  cannot  shun? 
Each  hath  his  pang,  but  feeble  sufferers  groan 
With  brain-born  dreams  of  evil  all  their  own. 
Pursue  what  Chance  or  Fate  proclaimeth  best ; 
Peace  waits  us  on  the  shores  of  Acheron : 
There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest, 
But  Silence  spreads  the  couch  of  ever  welcome  rest. 

VIII. 

Yet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  deem'd,  there  be 
A  land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore. 
To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 
And  sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore ; 
How  sweet  it  were  in  concert  to  adore 
With  those  who  made  our  mortal  labors  light ! 
To  hear  each  voice  we  fear'd  to  hear  no  more ! 
Behold  each  mighty  shade  reveal'd  to  sight, 
The  Bactrian,  Samian  sage,  and  all  who  taught  the 
right ! 


48  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  ii. 

IX. 

There,  thou!  —  whose  love  and  life  together  fled, 
Have  left  me  here  to  love  and  live  in  vain — 
Twined  with  my  heart,  and  can  I  deem  thee  dead 
When  busy  Memory  flashes  on  my  brain  ? 
Well  —  I  will  dream  that  we  may  meet  again. 
And  woo  the  vision  to  my  vacant  breast : 
If  aught  of  young  Remembrance  then  remain, 
Be  as  it  may  Futurity's  behest, 
For  me  'twere  bliss  enough  to  know  thy  spirit  blest !  * 

X. 

Here  let  me  sit  upon  this  massy  stone. 
The  marble  column's  yet  unshaken  base ; 
Here,  son  of  Saturn  !  was  thy  fav'rite  throne : 
Mightiest  of  many  such !     Hence  let  me  trace 
The  latent  grandeur  of  thy  dwelling-place. 
It  may  not  be :  nor  ev'n  can  Fancy's  eye 
Restore  what  Time  hath  labor'd  to  deface. 
Yet  these  proud  pillars  claim  no  passing  sigh  ; 
Unmoved  the  Moslem  sits,  the  light  Greek  carols  by, 

XI. 

But  who,  of  all  the  plunderers  of  yon  fane 

On  high,  where  Pallas  linger'd,  loth  to  flee 

The  latest  relic  of  her  ancient  reign ; 

The  last,  the  worst,  dull  spoiler,  who  was  he? 

Blush,  Caledonia !  such  thy  son  could  be ! 

England  !  I  joy  no  child  he  was  of  thine : 

Thy  free-born  men  should  spare  what  once  was 

free; 
Yet  they  could  violate  each  saddening  shrine, 
And  bear  these  altars  o'er  the  long-reluctant  brine.* 


CANTO  II.]  PILGRIMAGE.  49 

XII. 
But  most  the  modern  Pict's  ignoble  boast, 
To  rive  wliat  Goth,  and  Turk,  and  Time   hath 

spared : 
Cold  as  the  crags  upon  his  native  coast, 
His  mind  as  barren  and  his  heart  as  hard. 
Is  he  whose  head  conceived,  whose  hand  prepared, 
Aught  to  displace  Athena's  poor  remains  : 
Her  sons  too  weak  the  sacred  shrine  to  guard. 
Yet  felt  some  portion  of  their  mother's  pains, ^ 
And  never  knew,  till  then,  the  weight  of  Despot's 

chains. 

XIII. 

What !  shall  it  e'er  be  said  by  British  tongue, 
Albion  was  happy  in  Athena's  tears  ? 
Though  in  thy  name  the  slaves  her  bosom  wrung. 
Tell  not  the  deed  to  blushing  Europe's  ears ; 
The  ocean  queen,  the  free  Britannia,  bears 
The  last  poor  plunder  from  a  bleeding  land : 
Yes,  she,  whose  generous  aid  her  name  endears. 
Tore  down  those  remnants  with  a  harpy's  hand. 
Which  envious  Eld  forbore,  and  tyrants  left  to  stand. 

XIV. 

Where  was  thine  ^gis,  Pallas !  that  appall'd 
Stem  Alaric  and  Havoc  on  their  way  ?  • 
Where  Peleus'  son  ?  whom  Hell  in  vain  enthrall'd. 
His  shade  from  Hades  upon  that  dread  day 
Bursting  to  light  in  terrible  array! 
What !  could  not  Pluto  spare  the  chief  once  more. 
To  scare  a  second  robber  from  his  prey? 
Idly  he  wander'd  on  the  Stygian  shore. 
Nor  now  preserved  the  walls  he  loved  to  shield  before. 


50  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  ii. 

XV. 
Cold  is  the  heart,  fair  Greece !  that  looks  on  thee, 
Nor  feels  as  lovers  o'er  the  dust  they  loved ; 
Dull  is  the  eye  that  will  not  weep  to  see 
Thy  walls  defaced,  thy  mouldering  shrines  removed 
By  British  hands,  which  it  had  best  behoved 
To  guard  those  relics  ne'er  to  be  restored. 
Curst  be  the  hour  when  from  their  isle  they  roved, 
And  once  again  thy  hapless  bosom  gored. 
And  snatch'd  thy  shrinking  Gods  to  northern  climes 
abhorr'd ! 

XVI. 

But  where  is  Harold  ?  shall  I  then  forget 
To  urge  the  gloomy  wanderer  o'er  the  wave? 
Little  reck'd  he  of  all  that  men  regret ; 
No  loved-one  now  in  feign'd  lament  could  rave ; 
No  friend  the  parting  hand  extended  gave, 
Ere  the  cold  stranger  pass'd  to  other  climes. 
Hard  is  his  heart  whom  charms  may  not  enslave ; 
But  Harold  felt  not  as  in  other  times. 
And  left  without  a  sigh  the  land  of  war  and  crimes. 

XVII. 

He  that  has  sail'd  upon  the  dark  blue  sea 
Has  view'd  at  times,  I  ween,  a  full  fair  sight ; 
When  the  fresh  breeze  is  fair  as  breeze  may  be. 
The  white  sail  set,  the  gallant  frigate  tight ; 
Masts,  spires,  and  strand  retiring  to  the  right, 
The  glorious  main  expanding  o'er  the  bow, 
The  convoy  spread  like  wild  swans  in  their  flight. 
The  dullest  sailer  wearing  bravely  now. 
So  gayiy  curl  the  waves  before  each  dashing  prow. 


CANTO  II.]  PILGRIMAGE.  51 

XVIII. 
And  oh,  the  little  warlike  world  within  ! 
The  well-reeved  guns,  the  netted  canopy,'' 
The  hoarse  command,  the  busy  humming  din. 
When,  at  a  word,  the  tops  are  mann'd  on  high : 
Hark,  to  the  Boatswain's  call,  the  cheering  cry! 
While  through  the  seaman's  hand  the  tackle  glides 
Or  schoolboy  Midshipman  that,  standing  by. 
Strains  his  shrill  pipe  as  good  or  ill  betides, 
And  well  the  docile  crew  that  skilful  urchin  guides. 

XIX. 

White  is  the  glassy  deck,  without  a  stain, 
Where  on  the  watch  the  staid  Lieutenant  walks : 
Look  on  that  part  which  sacred  doth  remain 
For  the  lone  chieftain,  who  majestic  stalks, 
Silent  and  fear'd  by  all  —  not  oft  he  talks 
With  aught  beneath  him,  if  he  would  preserve 
That  strict  restraint,  which  broken,  ever  balks 
Conquest  and  Fame :  but  Britons  rarely  swerve 
From  law,  however  stern,  which  tends  their  strength 
to  nerve. 

XX. 

Blow !  swiftly  blow,  thou  keel-compelling  gale  ! 
Till  the  broad  sun  withdraws  his  lessening  ray ; 
Then  must  the  pennant-bearer  slacken  sail. 
That  lagging  barks  may  make  their  lazy  way. 
Ah !  grievance  sore,  and  listless  dull  delay, 
To  waste  on  sluggish  hulks  the  sweetest  breeze ! 
What  leagues  are  lost,  before  the  dawn  of  day. 
Thus  loitering  pensive  on  the  willing  seas, 
The  flapping  sail  haul'd  down  to  halt  for  logs  like 
these ! 


52  CHILD E   HAROLD'S         [canto  ii. 

XXI. 

The  moon  is  up ;  by  Heaven,  a  lovely  eve ! 
Long  streams  of  light  o'er  dancing  waves  expand  ; 
Now  lads  on  shore  may  sigh,  and  maids  believe: 
Such  be  our  fate  when  we  return  to  land ! 
Meantime  some  rude  Arion's  restless  hand 
Wakes  the  brisk  harmony  that  sailors  love ; 
A  circle  there  of  merry  listeners  stand, 
Or  to  some  well-known  measure  featly  move, 
Thoughtless,  as  if  on  shore  they  still  were  free  to 
rove. 

XXII. 

Through  Calpe's  straits  survey  the  steepy  shore ; 
Europe  and  Afric  on  each  other  gaze  ! 
Lands  of  the  dark-eyed  Maid  and  dusky  Moor 
Alike  beheld  beneath  pale  Hecate's  blaze : 
How  softly  on  the  Spanish  shore  she  plays, 
Disclosing  rock,  and  slope,  and  forest  brown. 
Distinct,  though  darkening  with  her  waning  phase  ; 
But  Mauritania's  giant-shadows  frown. 
From    mountain-cliff  to   coast   descending   sombre 
down. 

XXIII. 

'Tis  night,  when  Meditation  bids  us  fee 
We  once  have  loved,  though  love  is  at  an  end : 
The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its  baffled  zeal. 
Though  friendless  now,  will  dream  it  had  a  friend. 
Who  with  the  weight  of  years  would  wish  to  bend, 
When  Youth  itself  survives  young  Love  and  Joy? 
Alas !  when  mingling  souls  forget  to  blend. 
Death  hath  but  little  left  him  to  destroy? 
Ah  !  happy  years  !  once  more  who  would  not  be  a  boy  ? 


CANTO  11.]  PILGRIMAGE.  53 

XXIV. 

Thus  bending  o'er  the  vessel's  laving  side, 
To  gaze  on  Dian's  wave-reflected  sphere, 
The  soul  forgets  her  schemes  of  Hope  and  Pride, 
And  flies  unconscious  o'er  each  backward  year. 
None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear, 
Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possess'd 
A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear ; 
A  flashing  pang !  of  which  the  weary  breast 
Would  still,  albeit  in  vain,  the  heavy  heart  divest. 

XXV. 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell. 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene. 
Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion  dwell. 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er  or  rarely  been ; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen. 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold ; 
Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean ; 
This  is  not  solitude ;  'tis  but  to  hold 
Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her  stores 
unroU'd. 

XXVI. 

But  midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  of  men. 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess, 
And  roam  along,  the  world's  tired  denizen. 
With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  bless, 
Minions  of  splendor  shrinking  from  distress  ! 
None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued. 
If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less. 
Of  all  that  flatter'd,  follow'd,  sought,  and  sued ; 
This  is  to  be  alone  ;  this,  this  is  solitude  I 


54  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  ir. 

XXVII. 

More  blest  the  life  of  godly  eremite, 
Such  as  on  lonely  Athos  may  be  seen,' 
Watching  at  eve  upon  the  giant  height, 
Which  looks  o'er  waves  so  blue,  skies  so  serene, 
That  he  who  there  at  such  an  hour  hath  been 
Will  wistful  linger  on  that  hallow'd  spot ; 
Then  slowly  tear  him  from  the  witching  scene. 
Sigh  forth  one  wish  that  such  had  been  his  lot. 
Then  turn  to  hate  a  world  he  had  almost  forgot. 

XXVIII. 

Pass  we  the  long,  unvarying  course,  the  track 
Oft  trod,  that  never  leaves  a  trace  behind ; 
Pass  we  the  calm,  the  gale,  the  change,  the  tack, 
And  each  well  known  caprice  of  wave  and  wind ; 
Pass  we  the  joys  and  sorrows  sailors  find, 
Coop'd  in  their  winged  sea-girt  citadel ; 
The  foul,  the  fair,  the  contrary,  the  kind, 
As  breezes  rise  and  fall  and  billows  swell, 
Till  on  some  jocund  morn  —  lo,  land  !  and  all  is  well. 

XXIX. 

But  not  in  silence  pass  Calypso^  isles,' 
The  sister  tenants  of  the  middle  deep ; 
There  for  the  weary  still  a  haven  smiles, 
Though  the  fair  goddess  long  hath  ceased  to  weep, 
And  o'er  her  cliffs  a  fruitless  watch  to  keep 
For  him  who  dared  prefer  a  mortal  bride : 
Here,  too,  his  boy  essay'd  the  dreadful  leap 
Stern  Mentor  urged  from  high  to  yonder  tide ; 
While  thus  of  both  bereft,  the  nymph-queen  doubly 
sighed. 


CANTO  II.]  PILGRIMAGE.  55 

XXX. 

Her  reign  is  past,  her  gentle  glories  gone : 
But  trust  not  this  ;  too  easy  youth,  beware ! 
A  mortal  sovereign  holds  her  dangerous  throne, 
And  thou  may'st  find  a  new  Calypso  there. 
Sweet  Florence !  could  another  ever  share 
This  wayward,  loveless  heart,  it  would  be  thine  : 
But  check'd  by  every  tie,  I  may  not  dare 
To  cast  a  worthless  offering  at  thy  shrine, 
Nor  ask  so  dear  a  breast  to  feel  one  pang  for  mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus  Harold  deem'd,  as  on  that  lady's  eye 
He  look'd,  and  met  its  beam  without  a  thought, 
Save  Admiration  glancing  harmless  by : 
Love  kept  aloof,  albeit  not  far  remote, 
Who  knew  his  votary  often  lost  and  caught, 
But  knew  him  as  his  worshipper  no  more. 
And  ne'er  again  the  boy  his  bosom  sought : 
Since  now  he  vainly  urged  him  to  adore, 
Well  deem'd  the  little  God  his  ancient  sway  was  o'er. 

XXXII, 

Fair  Florence  found,  in  sooth  with  some  amaze. 
One  who,  'twas  said,  still  sigh'd  to  all  he  saw. 
Withstand,  unmoved,  the  lustre  of  her  gaze, 
Which  others  hail'd  with  real  or  mimic  awe. 
Their  hope,  their  doom,  their  punishment,  their  law ; 
All  that  gay  Beauty  from  her  bondsmen  claims : 
And  much  she  marvell'd  that  a  youth  so  raw 
Nor  felt,  nor  feign'd  at  least,  the  oft-told  flames, 
Which,   though   sometimes  they  frown,   yet   rarely 
anger  dames. 


56  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  [canto  IL 

XXXIII. 

Little  knew  she  that  seeming  marble  heart, 
Now  mask'd  in  silence  or  withheld  by  pride, 
Was  not  unskilful  in  the  spoiler's  art,^" 
And  spread  its  snares  licentious  far  and  wide ; 
Nor  from  the  base  pursuit  had  turned  aside, 
As  long  as  aught  was  worthy  to  pursue : 
But  Harold  on  such  arts  no  more  relied ; 
And  had  he  doted  on  those  eyes  so  blue. 
Yet  never  would  he  join  the  lover's  whining  crew. 

XXXIV. 

Not  much  he  kens,  I  ween,  of  woman's  breast. 
Who  thinks  that  wanton  thing  is  won  by  sighs ; 
What  careth  she  for  hearts  when  once  possess'd.? 
Do  proper  homage  to  thine  idol's  eyes ; 
But  not  too  humbly,  or  she  will  despise 
Thee  and  thy  suit,  though  told  in  moving  tropes : 
Disguise  ev'n  tenderness,  if  thou  art  wise  ; 
Brisk  Confidence  still  best  with  woman  copes ; 
Pique  her  and  soothe  in  turn,  soon  Passion  crowns 
thy  hopes. 

XXXV. 

'Tis  an  old  lesson ;  Time  approves  it  true. 
And  those  who  know  it  best,  deplore  it  most ; 
Wlien  all  is  won  that  all  desire  to  woo. 
The  paltry  prize  is  hardly  worth  the  cost. 
Youth  wasted,  minds  degraded,  honor  lost. 
These  are  thy  fruits,  successful  Passion !  these ! 
If,  kindly  cruel,  early  Hope  is  crost, 
Still  to  the  last  it  rankles,  a  disease, 
Not  to  be  cured  when  Love  itself  forgets  to  please. 


CANTO  II.]  PILGRIMAGE.  57 

XXXVI. 

Away !  nor  let  me  loiter  in  my  song. 
For  we  have  many  a  mountain-path  to  tread, 
And  many  a  varied  shore  to  sail  along. 
By  pensive  Sadness,  not  by  Fiction,  led  — 
Climes,  fair  withal  as  ever  mortal  head 
Imagined  in  its  little  schemes  of  thought ; 
Or  e'er  in  new  Utopias  were  read, 
To  teach  man  what  he  might  be,  or  he  ought ; 
If  that  corrupted  thing  could  ever  such  be  taught. 

XXXVII. 

Dear  Nature  is  the  kindest  mother  still. 
Though  alway  changing,  in  her  aspect  mild  ; 
From  her  bare  bosom  let  me  take  my  fill. 
Her  never- wean'd,  though  not  her  favor'd  child. 
Oh !  she  is  fairest  in  her  features  wild. 
Where  nothing  polish'd  dares  pollute  her  path  : 
To  me  by  day  or  night  she  ever  smiled. 
Though  I  have  mark'd  her  when  none  other  hath, 
And  sought  her  more  and  more,  and  loved  her  best 
in  wrath. 

XXXVIII. 

Land  of  Albania !  where  Iskander  rose. 
Theme  of  the  young,  and  beacon  of  the  wise, 
And  he  his  namesake,  whose  oft-baffled  foes 
Shrunk  from  his  deeds  of  chivalrous  emprize : 
Land  of  Albania !  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men ! 
The  cross  descends,  thy  minarets  arise. 
And  the  pale  crescent  sparkles  in  the  glen, 
Through  many  a  cypress  grove  within  each  city's  ken. 


58  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  ii. 

XXXIX. 

Childe  Harold  sail'd,  and  past  the  barren  spot 
Where  sad  Penelope  o'erlook'd  the  wave ; " 
And  onward  view'd  the  mount,  not  yet  forgot, 
The  lover's  refuge,  and  the  Lesbian's  grave. 
Dark  Sappho  !  could  not  verse  immortal  save 
That  breast  imbued  with  such  immortal  fire? 
Could  she  not  live  who  life  eternal  gave  ? 
If  life  eternal  may  await  the  lyre. 
That  only  heaven  to  which  Earth's  children  ni^ 
aspire. 

XL. 

'Twas  on  a  Grecian  autumn's  gentle  eve 
Childe  Harold  hail'd  Leucadia's  cape  afar ;  ^ 
A  spot  he  longed  to  see,  nor  cared  to  leave : 
Oft  did  he  mark  the  scenes  of  vanish'd  war, 
Actium,  Lepanto,  fatal  Trafalgar ;  ^' 
Mark  them  unmoved,  for  he  would  not  delight 
(Born  beneath  some  remote  inglorious  star) 
In  themes  of  bloody  fray,  or  gallant  fight, 
But  loathed  the  bravo's  trade,  and  laughed  at  martial 
wight. 

XLI. 

But  when  he  saw  the  evening  star  above 
Leucadia's  far-projecting  rock  of  woe. 
And  hail'd  the  last  resort  of  fruitless  love, 
He  felt,  or  deem'd  he  felt,  no  common  glow : 
And  as  the  stately  vessel  glided  slow 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  ancient  mount. 
He  watch'd  the  billows'  melancholy  flow. 
And,  sunk  albeit  in  thought  as  he  was  wont. 
More  placid  seem'd  his  eye,  and  smooth  his  pallid  front. 


CANTO  II.]  PILGRIMAGE.  59 

XLII. 

Morn  dawns ;  and  with  it  stern  Albania's  hills, 
Dark  Suli's  rocks,  and  Pindus'  inland  peak, 
Robed  half  in  mist,  bedew'd  with  snowy  rills, 
Array'd  in  many  a  dun  and  pivple  streak, 
Arise  ;  and,  as  the  clouds  along  them  break. 
Disclose  the  dwelling  of  the  mountaineer  ; 
Here  roams  the  wolf,  the  eagle  whets  his  beak. 
Birds,  beasts  of  prey,  and  wilder  men  appear, 
And  gathering  storms  around  convulse  the  closing 
year. 

XLIII, 

Now  Harold  felt  himself  at  length  alone. 
And  bade  to  Christian  tongues  a  long  adieu ; 
Now  he  adventured  on  a  shore  unknown. 
Which  all  admire,  but  many  dread  to  view : 
His  breast  was  arm'd  'gainst  fate,  his  wants  were  few  ; 
Peril  he  sought  not,  but  ne'er  shrank  to  meet : 
The  scene  was  savage,  but  the  scene  was  new ; 
This  made  the  ceaseless  toil  of  travel  sweet. 
Beat  back  keen  winter's  blast,  and  welcomed  sum- 
mer's heat. 

XLIV. 

Here  the  red  cross,  for  still  the  cross  is  here, 
Though  sadly  scoff 'd  at  by  the  circumcised, 
Forgets  that  pride  to  pamper'd  priesthood  dear ; 
Churchman  and  votary  alike  despised. 
Foul  Superstition  !  howsoe'er  disguised, 
Idol,  saint,  virgin,  prophet,  crescent,  cross, 
For  whatsoever  symbol  thou  art  prized. 
Thou  sacerdotal  gain,  but  general  loss  ! 
Who  from  true  worship's  gold  can  separate  thy  dross  ? 


6o  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  ii. 

XLV. 

Ambracia's  gulf  behold,  where  once  was  lost 
A  world  for  woman,  lovely,  harmless  thing  ! 
In  yonder  rippling  bay,  their  naval  host 
Did  many  a  Roman  chief  and  Asian  king  " 
To  doubtful  conflict,  certain  slaughter  bring : 
Look  where  the  second  Caesar's  trophies  rose :  ^^ 
Now,  like  the  hands  that  rear'd  them,  withering : 
Imperial  anarchs,  doubling  human  woes ! 
God!  was  thy  globe  ordain'd  for  such  to  win  and 
lose  ? 

XLVI. 

From  the  dark  barriers  of  that  rugged  clime, 
Ev'n  to  the  centre  of  llljTia's  vales, 
Childe  Harold  pass'd  o'er  many  a  mount  sublime. 
Through  lands  scarce  noticed  in  historic  tales ; 
Yet  in  famed  Attica  such  lovely  dales 
Are  rarely  seen ;  nor  can  fair  Tempe  boast 
A  charm  they  know  not ;  loved  Parnassus  fails, 
Though  classic  ground  and  consecrated  most. 
To  match  some  spots  that  lurk  within  this  lowering 
coast. 

XLVII. 

He  passM  bleak  Pindus,  Acherusia's  lake,^* 
And  left  the  primal  city  of  the  land. 
And  onwards  did  his  further  journey  take 
To  greet  Albania's  chief  ",  whose  dread  command 
Is  lawless  law ;  for  with  a  bloody  hand 
He  sways  a  nation,  turbulent  and  bold : 
Yet  here  and  there  some  daring  mountain-band 
Disdain  his  power,  and  from  their  rocky  hold 
Hurl  their  defiance  far,  nor  yield,  unless  to  gold.^^ 


CANTO  II.]  PILGRIMAGE.  6i 

XLVIII. 

Monastic  Zitza !  ^^  from  thy  shady  brow. 
Thou  small,  but  favor'd  spot  of  holy  ground ! 
Where'er  we  gaze,  around,  above,  below, 
What  rainbow  tints,  what  magic  charms  are  found ! 
Rock,  river,  forest,  mountain,  all  abound. 
And  bluest  skies  that  harmonize  the  whole : 
Beneath,  the  distant  torrent's  rushing  sound 
Tells  where  the  volumed  cataract  doth  roll 
Between  those  hanging  rocks,  that  shock  yet  please 
the  soul. 

XLIX. 

Amidst  the  grove  that  crowns  yon  tufted  hill. 
Which,  were  it  not  for  many  a  mountain  nigh 
Rising  in  lofty  ranks,  and  loftier  still. 
Might  well  itself  be  deem'd  of  dignity. 
The  convent's  white  walls  glisten  fair  on  high. 
Here  dwells  the  caloyer,**  nor  rude  is  he. 
Nor  niggard  of  his  cheer ;  the  passer  by 
Is  welcome  still ;  nor  heedless  will  he  flee 
From  hence,  if  he  delight  kind  Nature's  sheen  to 
see. 

L. 

Here  in  the  sultriest  season  let  him  rest. 
Fresh  is  the  green  beneath  those  aged  trees ; 
Here  winds  of  gentlest  wing  will  fan  his  breast, 
From  heaven  itself  he  may  inhale  the  breeze : 
The  plain  is  far  beneath  —  oh  !  let  him  seize 
Pure  pleasure  while  he  can ;  the  scorching  ray 
Here  pierceth  not,  impregnate  with  disease ; 
Then  let  his  length  the  loitering  pilgrim  lay, 
And  gaze,  untired,  the  morn,  the  noon,  the  eve  away. 


62  CHJLDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  ii. 


Dusky  and  huge,  enlarging  on  the  sight, 

Nature's  volcanic  amphitheatre,*^ 

Chimaera's  alps  extend  from  left  to  right : 

Beneath,  a  living  valley  seems  to  stir ; 

Flocks  play,  trees  wave,  streams  flow,  the  moun- 
tain-fir 

Nodding  above ;  behold  black  Acheron !  '^ 

Once  consecrated  to  the  sepulchre. 

Pluto  !  if  this  be  hell  I  look  upon, 
Close  shamed  Elysium's  gates,  my  shade  shall  seek 
for  none. 

LII. 

Ne  city's  towers  pollute  the  lovely  view ; 
Unseen  is  Yanina,  though  not  remote, 
Veil'd  by  the  screen  of  hills :  here  men  are  few, 
Scanty  the  hamlet,  rare  the  lonely  cot ; 
But  peering  down  each  precipice,  the  goat 
Browseth ;  and,  pensive  o'er  his  scattered  flock. 
The  little  shepherd  in  his  white  capote  "^ 
Doth  lean  his  boyish  form  along  the  rock. 
Or  in  his  cave  awaits  the  tempest's  short-lived  shock. 


Oh  !  where,  Dodona !  is  thine  aged  grove, 
Prophetic  fount,  and  oracle  divine? 
What  valley  echo'd  the  response  of  Jove  ? 
What  trace  remaineth  of  the  Thunderer's  shrine  ? 
All,  all  forgotten  — and  shall  man  repine 
That  his  frail  bonds  to  fleeting  life  are  broke  ? 
Cease,  fool !  the  fate  of  gods  may  well  be  thine  : 


CANTO  II.]  PILGRIMAGE.  63 

Wouldst  thou  survive  the  n^arble  or  the  oak  ? 
When  nations,  tongues,  and  worlds  must  sink  be- 
neath the  stroke ! 


LIV. 

Epirus'  bounds  recede,  and  mountains  fail; 
Tired  of  up-gazing  still,  the  wearied  eye 
Reposes  gladly  on  as  smooth  a  vale 
As  ever  Spring  yclad  in  grassy  dye : 
Even  on  a  plain  no  humble  beauties  lie, 
Where  some  bold  river  breaks  the  long  expanse. 
And  woods  along  the  banks  are  waving  high. 
Whose  shadows  in  the  glassy  waters  dance. 
Or  with  the  moonbeam  sleep  in  midnight's  solemn 
trance. 

LV. 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  vast  Tomerit,^* 
And  Laos  wide  and  fierce  came  roaring  by  ;  ^ 
The  shades  of  wonted  night  were  gathering  yet, 
When,  down  the  steep  banks  winding  warily, 
Childe  Harold  saw,  like  meteors  in  the  sky, 
The  glittering  minarets  of  Tepalen, 
Whose  walls  overlook  the  stream  ;  and  drawing  nigh. 
He  heard  the  busy  hum  of  warrior-men 
Swelling  the  breeze  that  sigh'd  along  the  lengthening 
glen.* 

Lvr. 

He  pass'd  the  sacred  Haram's  silent  tower. 
And  underneath  the  wide  o'erarching  gate 
Survey'd  the  dwelling  of  this  chief  of  power, 
Where  all  around  proclaim'd  his  high  estate. 


64  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  ll. 

Amidst  no  common  pomp  the  despot  sate, 
While  busy  preparation  shook  the  court, 
Slaves,  eunuchs,  soldiers,  guests,  and  santons  wait ; 
Within,  a  palace,  and  without,  a  fort : 
Here  men  of  every  clime  appear  to  make  resort. 

LVII. 

Richly  caparison'd,  a  ready  row 
Of  armed  horse,  and  many  a  warlike  store. 
Circled  the  wide  extending  court  below ; 
Above,  strange  groups  adorn'd  the  corridore ; 
And  oft-times  through  the  area's  echoing  door. 
Some  high-capp'd  Tartar  spurr'd  his  steed  away : 
The  Turk,  the  Greek,  the  Albanian,  and  the  Moor, 
Here  mingled  in  their  many-hued  array, 
While   the   deep  war-drum's  sound  announced   the 
close  of  day. 

LVIII. 

The  wild  Albanian  kirtled  to  his  knee, 
With  shawl-girt  head  and  ornamented  gun. 
And  gold-embroider'd  garments,  fair  to  see : 
The  crimson-scarfed  men  of  Macedon ; 
The  Delhi  with  his  cap  of  terror  on, 
And  crooked  glaive  ;  the  lively,  supple  Greek ; 
And  swarthy  Nubia's  mutilated  son  ; 
The  bearded  Turk,  that  rarely  deigns  to  speak. 
Master  of  all  around,  too  potent  to  be  meek, 

LIX. 

Are  mix'd  conspicuous  :  some  recline  in  groups. 
Scanning  the  motley  scene  that  varies  round ; 
There  some  grave  Moslem  to  devotion  stoops, 
And  some  that  smoke,  and  some  that  play,  are  found ; 


CANTO  n.]  PILGRIMAGE.  65 

Here  the  Albanian  proudly  treads  the  ground ; 
Half  whispering  there  the  Greek  is  heard  to  prate ; 
Hark  !  from  the  mosque  the  nightly  solemn  sound, 
The  Muezzin's  call  doth  shake  the  minaret, 
"There  is  no  god  but  God!  —  to  prayer  —  lo  !  God 
is  great ! "  ^ 

LX. 

Just  at  this  season  Ramazani's  fast  "^ 
Through  the  long  day  its  penance  did  maintain : 
But  when  the  lingering  twilight  hour  was  past. 
Revel  and  feast  assumed  the  rule  again : 
Now  all  was  bustle,  and  the  menial  train 
Prepared  and  spread  the  plenteous  board  within  ; 
The  vacant  gallery  now  seem'd  made  in  vain. 
But  from  the  chambers  came  the  mingling  din, 
As  page  and  slave  anon  were  passing  out  and  in. 

LXI. 

Here  woman's  voice  is  never  heard :  apart. 
And  scarce  permitted,  guarded,  veil'd,  to  move. 
She  yields  to  one  her  person  and  her  heart, 
Tamed  to  her  cage,  nor  feels  a  wish  to  rove : 
For,  not  unhappy  in  her  master's  love. 
And  joyful  in  a  mother's  gentlest  cares. 
Blest  cares  !  all  other  feelings  far  above ! 
Herself  more  sweetly  rears  the  babe  she  bears. 
Who    never  quits   the   breast,   no   meaner  passion 
shares. 

LXII. 

In  marble-paved  pavilion,  where  a  spring 
Of  living  water  from  tiie  centre  rose, 
Whose  bubbling  did  a  genial  freshness  fling. 
And  soft  voluptuous  couches  breathed  repose. 


66  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  ii. 

Ali  reclined,  a  man  of  war  and  woes :  ^ 
Yet  in  his  lineaments  ye  cannot  trace, 
While  Gentleness  her  milder  radiance  throws 
Along  that  aged,  venerable  face, 
The  deeds  that  lurk  beneath,  and  stain  him  with  dis- 
grace. 

LXIII. 

It  is  not  that  yon  hoary  lengthening  beard 
111  suits  the  passions  which  belong  to  youth  ;  ** 
Love  conquers  age  —  so  Hafiz  hath  averr'd. 
So  sings  the  Teian,  and  he  sings  in  sooth  — 
But  crimes  that  scorn  the  tender  voice  of  Ruth, 
Beseeming  all  men  ill,  but  most  the  man. 
In  years,  have  mark'd  him  with  a  tiger's  tooth ; 
Blood  follows  blood,  and,  through  their  mortal  span. 
In   bloodier  acts  conclude  those   who  with    blood 
began  .8* 

LXIV. 

Mid  many  things  most  new  to  ear  and  eye 
The  pilgrim  rested  here  his  weary  feet, 
And  gazed  around  on  Moslem  luxury. 
Till  quickly  wearied  with  that  spacious  seat 
Of  Wealth  and  Wantonness,  the  choice  retreat 
Of  sated  Grandeur  from  the  city's  noise : 
And  were  it  humbler  it  in  sooth  were  sweet ; 
But  Peace  abhorreth  artificial  joys. 
And  pleasure,  leagued  with  Pomp,  the  zest  of  both 
destroys. 

LXV. 

Fierce  are  Albania's  children,  yet  they  lack 

Not  virtues,  were  those  virtues  more  mature.         .^ 


CANTO  II.]  PILGRIMAGE.  67 

Where  is  the  foe  that  ever  saw  their  back? 
Who  can  so  well  the  toil  of  war  endure  ? 
Their  native  fastnesses  not  more  secure 
Than  they  in  doubtful  time  of  troublous  need : 
Their  wrath  how  deadly !  but  their  friendship  sure. 
When  Gratitude  or  Valor  bids  them  bleed, 
Unshaken  rushing  on  where'er  their  chief  may  lead. 

LXVI. 

Childe  Harold  saw  them  in  their  chieftain's  tower 
Thronging  to  war  in  splendor  and  success ; 
And  after  view'd  them,  when,  within  their  power, 
Himself  awhile  the  victim  of  distress  ; 
That  saddening  hour  when  bad  men  hotlier  press : 
But  these  did  shelter  him  beneath  their  roof, 
When  less  barbarians  would  have  cheer'd  him  less, 
And  fellow-countrymen  have  stood  aloof — ^ 
In  aught  that  tries  the  heart  how  few  withstand  the 
proof. 

LXVII. 

It  chanced  that  adverse  winds  once  drove  his  bark 
Full  on  the  coast  of  Suli's  shaggy  shore. 
When  all  around  was  desolate  and  dark  ; 
To  land  was  perilous,  to  sojourn  more ; 
Yet  for  a  while  the  mariners  forbore. 
Dubious  to  trust  where  treachery  might  lurk : 
At  length  they  ventured  forth,  though  doubting  sore 
That  those  who  loathe  alike  the  Frank  and  Turk 
Might  once  again  renew  their  ancient  butcher-work. 

LXVIII. 

Vain  fear  I  the  Suliotes  stretch'd  the  welcome  hand. 
Led  them  o'er  rocks  and  past  the  dangerous  swamp. 


68  CHILDE  HAROLD 'S  [canto  it 

Kinder  than  polish'd  slaves  though  not  so  bland, 
And  piled  the  hearth,  and  wrung  their  garments 

damp, 
And  fill'd  the  bowl,  and  trimmM  the  cheerful  lamp. 
And  spread  their  fare ;   though  homely,  all  they 

had: 
Such  conduct  bears  Philanthropy's  rare  stamp  — 
To  rest  the  weary  and  to  soothe  the  sad, 
Doth  lesson  happier  men,  and  shames  at  least  the 

bad. 

LXIX. 

It  came  to  pass,  that  when  he  did  address 
Himself  to  quit  at  length  this  mountain-land, 
Combined  marauders  half-way  barr'd  egress, 
And  wasted  far  and  near  with  glaive  and  brand : 
And  therefore  did  he  take  a  trusty  band 
To  traverse  Acarnania's  forest  wide. 
In  war  well  season'd,  and  with  labors  tann'd. 
Till  he  did  greet  white  Achelous'  tide. 
And  from  his  further  bank  vEtolia's  wolds  espied. 

LXX. 

Where  lone  Utraikey  forms  its  circling  cove. 
And  weary  waves  retire  to  gleam  at  rest. 
How  brown  the  foliage  of  the  green  hill's  grove, 
Nodding  at  midnight  o'er  the  calm  bay's  breast, 
As  winds  come  lightly  whispering  from  the  west. 
Kissing,  not  ruffling,  the  blue  deep's  serene  :  — 
Here  Harold  was  received  a  welcome  guest ; 
Nor  did  he  pass  unmoved  the  gentle  scene. 
For  many  a  joy  could  he  from  Night's  soft  presence 
glean. 


CANTO  II.]  PILGRIMAGE.  69 

LXXI. 

On  the  smooth  shore  the  night-fires  brightly  blazed, 
The  feast  was  done,  the  red  wine  circling  fast,^* 
And  he  that  unawares  had  there  ygazed 
With  gaping  wonderment  had  stared  aghast ; 
For  ere  night's  midmost,  stillest  hour  was  past, 
The  native  revels  of  the  troop  began ; 
Each  Palikar  **  his  sabre  from  him  cast. 
And  bounding  hand  in  hand,  man  link'd  to  man. 
Yelling  their  uncouth  dirge,  long  daunced  the  kirtled 
clan.^^ 

LXXII. 

Childe  Harold  at  a  little  distance  stood, 
And  view'd,  but  not  displeased,  the  revelrie, 
Nor  hated  harmless  mirth,  however  rude : 
In  sooth,  it  was  no  vulgar  sight  to  see 
Their  barbarous,  yet  their  not  indecent,  glee ; 
And,  as  the  flames  along  their  faces  gleam'd, 
Their  gestures  nimble,  dark  eyes  flashing  free, 
The  long  wild  locks  that  to  their  girdles  stream'd, 

While  thus  in  concert  they  this  lay  half  sang,  half 
scream'd :  — 

I. 

Tambourgi  !  Tambourgi ! "  thy  'larum  afar 

Gives  hope  to  the  valiant,  and  promise  of  war; 

All  the  sons   of  the  mountains  arise  at  the  note, 

Chimariot,  Illyrian,  and  dark  Suliote  !  •'' 

2. 
Oh !  who  is  more  brave  than  a  dark  Suliote, 
In  his  snowy  camese  and  his  shaggy  capote? 
To  the  wolf  and  the  vulture  he  leaves  his  wild  flock, 
And  descends  to  the  plain  like  the  stream  from  the 
rock. 


ib  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  ix. 

3- 

Shall  the  sons  of  Chimari,  who  never  forgive 
The  fault  of  a  friend,  bid  an  enemy  live? 
Let  those  guns  so  unerring  such  vengeance  forego? 
What  mark  is  so  fair  as  the  breast  of  a  foe  ? 

4. 
Macedonia  sends  forth  her  invincible  race  ; 
For  a  time  they  abandon  the  cave  and  the  chase  : 
But  those  scarfs  of  blood-red  shall  be  redder,  before 
The  sabre  is  sheathed  and  the  battle  is  o'er. 

5- 
Then  the  pirates  of  Parga  that  dwell  by  the  waves, 
And  teach  the  pale  Franks  what  it  is  to  be  slaves. 
Shall  leave  on  the  beach  the  long  galley  and  oar, 
And  track  to  his  covert  the  captive  on  shore. 

6. 
I  ask  not  the  pleasures  that  riches  supply. 
My  sabre  shall  win  what  the  feeble  must  buy ; 
Shall  win  the  young  bride  with  her  long  flowing  hair, 
And  many  a  maid  from  her  mother  shall  tear. 

7- 
I  love  the  fair  face  of  the  maid  in  her  youth, 
Her  caresses  shall  lull  me,  her  music  shall  soothe ; 
Let  her  bring  from  the  chamber  her  many-toned  lyre, 
And  sing  us  a  song  on  the  fall  of  her  sire. 


Remember  the  moment  when  Previsa  fell,'*  I 

The  shrieks  of  the  conquer'd,  the  conquerors'  yell ;  j 

The  roofs  that  we  fired,  and  the  plunder  we  shared,  j 

The  wealthy  we  slaughter'd,  the  lovely  we  spared.  { 


CANTO  11.]  PILGRIMAGE.  71 

9- 

I  talk  not  of  mercy,  I  talk  not  of  fear ; 
He  neither  must  know  who  would  serve  the  Vizier : 
Since  the  days  of  our  prophet  the  Crescent  ne'er  saw 
A  chief  ever  glorious  like  Ali  Pashaw. 

10. 
Dark  Much  tar  his  son  to  the  Danube  is  sped, 
Let  the  yellow-hair'd  **  Giaours  ^  view  his  horsetail  *^ 

with  dread  ; 
When  his  Delhis  ^^  come  dashing  in  blood  o'er  the 

banks, 
How  few  shall  escape  from  the  Muscovite  ranks ! 

II. 

Selictar  *8  unsheathe  then  our  chiefs  scimitar : 
Tambourgi !  thy  'larum  gives  promise  of  war. 
Ye  mountains,  that  see  us  descend  to  the  shore, 
Shall  view  us  as  victors,  or  view  us  no  more ! 

LXXIII. 

Fair  Greece !  sad  relic  of  departed  worth  ! 
Immortal,  though  no  more  ;  though  fallen,  great ! 
Who  now  shall  lead  thy  scatter'd  children  forth, 
And  long  accustom'd  bondage  uncreate? 
Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilome  did  await. 
The  hopeless  warriors  of  a  willing  doom. 
In  bleak  Thermopylae's  sepulchral  strait  — 
Oh !  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume, 
Leap  from  Eurotas'  banks,  and   call  thee  from  the 
tomb? 

LXXIV. 

Spirit  of  freedom !  when  on  Phyle's  brow  " 
Thou  sat'st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train, 


72  CHILD E  HAROLD'S         [canto  n. 

Couldst  thou  forebode  the  dismal  hour  which  now 
Dims  the  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plain  ? 
Not  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chain, 
But  every  carle  can  lord  it  o'er  thy  land ; 
Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain, 
Trembling  beneath  the  scourge  of  Turkish  hand. 
From  birth  till  death  enslaved ;  in  word,  in  deed,  un- 
manned. 

LXXV. 

In  all  save  form  alone,  how  changed !  and  who 
That  marks  the  fire  still  sparkling  in  each  eye. 
Who  but  would  deem  their  bosoms  burn'd  anew 
With  thy  unquenched  beam,  lost  Liberty  ! 
And  many  dream  withal  the  hour  is  nigh 
TJiat  gives  them  back  their  fathers'  heritage : 
For  foreign  arms  and  aid  they  fondly  sigh, 
Nor  solely  dare  encounter  hostile  rage. 
Or  tear  their  name  defiled  from  Slavery's  mournful 
page. 

LXXVI. 

Hereditary  bondsmen !  know  ye  not 

Who  would  be  free   themselves   must  strike  the 

blow  ? 
By  their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be  wrought? 
Will  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye?  no  ! 
True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  despoilers  low. 
But  not  for  you  will  Freedom's  altars  flame. 
Shades  of  the  Helots  !  triumph  o'er  your  foe ! 
Greece!   change  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  still  the 

same; 
Thy  glorious  day  is   o'er,  but  not   thine  years   of 

shame. 


CANTO  II.]  PILGRIMAGE.  73 

LXXVII. 

The  city  won  for  Allah  from  the  Giaour, 
The  Giaour  from  Othman's  race  again  may  wrest ; 
And  the  Serai's  impenetrable  tower 
Receive  the  fiery  Frank,  her  former  guest ;  *^ 
Or  Wahab's  rebel  brood  who  dared  divest 
The  prophet's  *®  tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil, 
May  wind  their  path  of  blood  along  the  West ; 
But  ne'er  will  freedom  seek  this  fated  soil, 
But  slave  succeed  to  slave  through  years  of  endless 
toil. 

LXXVIII. 

Yet  mark  their  mirth  —  ere  lenten  days  begin. 
That  penance  which  their  holy  rites  prepare 
To  shrive  from  man  his  weight  of  mortal  sin, 
By  daily  abstinence  and  nightly  prayer ; 
But  ere  his  sackcloth  garb  Repentance  wear, 
Some  days  of  joyaunce  are  decreed  to  all. 
To  take  of  pleasaunce  each  his  secret  share, 
In  motley  robe  to  dance  at  masking  ball. 
And  join  the  mimic  train  of  merry  Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And  whose  more  rife  with  merriment  than  thine. 
Oh  Stamboul !  *^  once  the  empress  of  their  reign  ? 
Though  turbans  now  pollute  Sophia's  shrine. 
And  Greece  her  very  altars  eyes  in  vain : 
(Alas  !  her  woes  will  still  pervade  my  strain  !  ) 
Gay  were  her  minstrels  once,  for  free  her  throng ; 
All  felt  the  common  joy  they  now  must  feign, 
Nor  oft  I've  seen  such  sight,  nor  heard  such  song, 
As  woo'd  the  eye,  and  thrill'd  the  Bosphorus  along. 


74  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  il 

LXXX. 

Loud  was  the  lightsome  tumult  on  the  shore, 
Oft  Music  changed,  but  never  ceased  her  tone. 
And  timely  echo'd  back  the  measured  oar. 
And  rippling  waters  made  a  pleasant  moan  : 
The  Queen  of  tides  on  high  consenting  shone, 
And  when  a  transient  breeze  swept  o'er  the  wave, 
'Twas,  as  if  darting  from  her  heavenly  throne, 
A  brighter  glance  her  form  reflected  gave. 
Till  sparkling  billows  seem'd  to  light  the  banks  they 
lave. 

LXXXI. 

Glanced  many  a  light  caique  along  the  foam. 
Danced  on  the  shore  the  daughters  of  the  land, 
Ne  thought  had  man  or  maid  of  rest  or  home. 
While  many  a  languid  eye  and  thrilling  hand 
Exchanged  the  look  few  bosoms  may  withstand, 
Or  gently  prest,  return'd  the  pressure  still : 
Oh  Love  !  young  Love !  bound  in  thy  rosy  band, 
Let  sage  or  cynic  prattle  as  he  will, 
These  hours,  and  only  these,  redeem  Life's  years 
of  ill ! 

LXXXII. 

But,  midst  the  throng  in  merry  masquerade. 
Lurk  there  no  hearts  that  throb  with  secret  pain, 
Even  through  the  closest  searment  half  betray'd  ? 
To  such  the  gentle  murmurs  of  the  main 
Seem  to  re-echo  all  they  mourn  in  vain ; 
To  such  the  gladness  of  the  gamesome  crowd 
Is  source  of  wayward  thought  and  stern  disdain  : 
How  do  they  loathe  the  laughter  idly  loud. 
And  long  to  change  the  robe  of  revel  for  the  shroud ! 


CANTO  II.]  PILGRIMAGE.  75 

LXXXIII. 

This  must  he  feel,  the  true-born  son  of  Greece, 
If  Greece  one  true-born  patriot  still  can  boast : 
Not  such  as  prate  of  war,  but  skulk  in  peace. 
The  bondsman's  peace,  who  sighs  for  all  he  lost, 
Yet  with  smooth  smile  his  tyrant  can  accost. 
And  wield  the  slavish  sickle,  not  the  sword. 
Ah!  Greece!  they  love  thee  least  who  owe  thee  most ; 
Their  birth,  their  blood,  and  that  sublime  record 
Of  hero  sires,  who  shame  thy  now  degenerate  horde  ! 

LXXXIV. 

When  riseth  Lacedemon's  hardihood. 
When  Thebes  Epaminondas  rears  again. 
When  Athens'  children  are  with  hearts  endued, 
When  Grecian  mothers  shall  give  birth  to  men. 
Then  may'st  thou  be  restored ;  but  not  till  then. 
A  thousand  years  scarce  serve  to  form  a  state ; 
An  hour  may  lay  it  in  the  dust :  and  when 
Can  man  its  sheltered  splendor  renovate, 
Recal  its  virtues  back,  and  vanquish  Time  and  Fate? 

LXXXV. 

And  yet  how  lovely  in  thine  age  of  woe, 
Land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men  !  art  thou ! 
Thy  vales  of  evergreen,  thy  hills  of  snow,*^ 
Proclaim  thee  Nature's  varied  favorite  now ; 
Thy  fanes,  thy  temples  to  thy  surface  bow. 
Commingling  slowly  with  heroic  earth. 
Broke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic  plough  : 
So  perish  monuments  of  mortal  birth. 
So  perish  all  in  turn,  save  well-recorded  Worth ; 


76  CHILDE  HAROLD'S        [canto  ii. 

LXXXVI. 

Save  where  some  solitary  column  mourns 
Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave ;  *• 
Save  where  Tritonia's  airy  shrine  adorns 
Colonna's  cliff,**  and  gleams  along  the  wave ; 
Save  o'er  some  warrior's  half-forgotten  grave, 
Where  the  gray  stones  and  unmolested  grass 
Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feebly  brave, 
While  strangers  only  not  regardless  pass, 
Lingering  like  me,   perchance,   to  gaze,   and  sigh 
"Alas!" 

LXXXVII. 

Yet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags  as  wild ; 
Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy  fields. 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva  smiled. 
And  still  his  honied  wealth  Hymettus  yields ; 
There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant  fortress  builds, 
The  freeborn  wanderer  of  thy  mountain-air ; 
Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer  gilds. 
Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli's  marbles  glare ; 
Art,  Glory,  Freedom  fail,  but  Nature  still  is  fair. 

LXXXVIII. 

Where'er  we  tread  'tis  haunted,  holy  ground  ; 
No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mould. 
But  one  vast  realm  of  wonder  spreads  around. 
And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truly  told. 
Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to  behold 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  upon ; 
Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deepening  glen  and  wold, 
Defies  the  power  which  crush'd  thy  temples  gone : 
Age  shakes  Athena's  tower,  but  spares  gray  Marathon. 


CANTO  II.]  PILGRIMAGE.  77 

LXXXIX. 

The  sun,  the  soil,  but  not  the  slave,  the  same; 
Unchanged  in  all  except  its  foreign  lord  — 
Preserves  alike  its  bounds  and  boundless  fame 
The  Battle-field,  where  Persia's  victim  horde 
First  bow'd  beneath  the  brunt  of  Hellas'  sword, 
As  on  the  morn  to  distant  Glory  dear, 
When  Marathon  became  a  magic  word  ;  ^^ 
Which  utter'd,  to  the  hearer's  eye  appear 
The  camp,  the  host,  the  fight,  the  conqueror's  career, 

xc. 

The  flying  Mede,  his  shaftless  broken  bow ; 
The  fiery  Greek,  his  red  pursuing  spear ; 
Mountains  above.  Earth's,  Ocean's  plain  below ; 
Death  in  the  front.  Destruction  in  the  rear ! 
Such  was  the  scene  —  what  now  remaineth  here  ? 
What  sacred  trophy  marks  the  hallow'd  ground. 
Recording  Freedom's  smile  and  Asia's  tear? 
The  rifled  urn,  the  violated  mound. 
The  dust  thy  courser's  hoof,  rude  stranger!  spurns 
around. 

xci. 

Yet  to  the  remnants  of  thy  splendor  past 
Shall  pilgrims,  pensive,  but  unwearied,  throng ; 
Long  shall  the  voyager,  with  the  Ionian  blast. 
Hail  the  bright  clime  of  battle  and  of  song ; 
Long  shall  thine  annals  and  immortal  tongue 
Fill  with  thy  fame  the  youth  of  many  a  shore ; 
Boast  of  the  aged  !  lesson  of  the  young  ! 
Which  sages  venerate  and  bards  adore. 
As  Pallas  and  the  Muse  unveil  their  awful  lore. 


78  CHILD E  HAROLD'S        [canto  n. 

XCII. 

The  parted  bosom  clings  to  wonted  home, 
If  aught  that's  kindred  cheer  the  welcome  hearth, 
He  that  is  lonely,  hither  let  him  roam. 
And  gaze  complacent  on  congenial  earth. 
Greece  is  no  lightsome  land  of  social  mirth : 
But  he  whom  Sadness  sootheth  may  abide, 
And  scarce  regret  the  region  of  his  birth, 
When  wandering  slow  by  Delphi's  sacred  side. 
Or  gazing  o'er  the  plains  where  Greek  and  Persian 
died. 

XCIII. 

Let  such  approach  this  consecrated  land. 
And  pass  in  peace  along  the  magic  waste  ; 
But  spare  its  relics  —  let  no  busy  hand 
Deface  the  scenes,  already  how  defaced ! 
Not  for  such  purpose  were  these  altars  placed : 
Revere  the  remnants  nations  once  revered ; 
So  may  our  country's  name  be  undisgraced. 
So  may'st  thou  prosper  where  thy  youth  was  rear'd, 
By  every  honest  joy  of  love  and  life  endear'd ! 

xciv. 
For  thee,  who  thus  in  too  protracted  song 
Hast  soothed  thine  idlesse  with  inglorious  lays, 
Soon  shall  thy  voice  be  lost  amid  the  throng 
Of  louder  minstrels  in  these  later  days : 
To  such  resign  the  strife  for  fading  bays,  — 
III  may  such  contest  now  the  spirit  move 
Which  heeds  nor  keen  reproach  nor  partial  praise ; 
Since  cold  each  kinder  heart  that  might  approve, 
And  none  are  left  to  please  when  none  are  left  to  love. 


CANTO  II.]  PILGRIMAGE.  79 

xcv. 
Thou  too  art  gone,  thou  loved  and  lovely  one ! 
Whom  youth  and  youth's  affections  bound  to  me ; 
Who  did  for  me  what  none  beside  have  done, 
Nor  shrank  from  one  albeit  unworthy  thee. 
What  is  my  being  ?  thou  hast  ceased  to  be ! 
Nor  staid  to  welcome  here  thy  wanderer  home. 
Who  mourns  o'er  hours  which  we  no  more  shall 

see, — 
Would  they  had  never  been,  or  were  to  come ! 
Would  he  had  ne'er  return'd  to  find  fresh  cause  to 
roam ! 

xcvi. 

Oh  !  ever  loving,  lovely,  and  beloved  ! 

How  selfish  Sorrow  ponders  on  the  past, 

And  clings  to  thoughts  now  better  far  removed  ! 

But  Time  shall  tear  thy  shadow  from  me  last. 

All  thou  couldst  have  of  mine,  stern  Death  !  thou 

hast; 
The  parent,  friend,  and  now  the  more  than  friend : 
Ne'er  yet  for  one  thine  arrows  flew  so  fast. 
And  grief  with  grief  continuing  still  to  blend. 
Hath  snatch'd  the  little  joy  that  life  had  yet  to  lend. 

XCVII. 

Then  must  I  plunge  again  into  the  crowd. 
And  follow  all  that  Peace  disdains  to  seek? 
Where  Revel  calls,  and  Laughter,  vainly  loud, 
False  to  the  heart,  distorts  the  hollow  cheek, 
To  leave  the  flagging  spirit  doubly  weak  ; 
Still  o'er  the  features,  which  perforce  they  cheer. 
To  feign  the  pleasure  or  conceal  the  pique  ; 


8o  CHILDE  HAROLD.  [canto  ii. 

Smiles  form  the  channel  of  a  future  tear, 
Or  raise  the  writhing  lip  with  ill-dissembled  sneer. 

XCVIII. 

What  is  the  worst  of  woes  that  wait  on  age  ? 
What  stamps  the  wrinkle  deeper  on  the  brow  ? 
To  view  each  loved  one  blotted  from  life's  page, 
And  be  alone  on  earth,  as  1  am  now.^* 
Before  the  Chastener  humbly  let  me  bow, 
O'er  hearts  divided  and  o'er  hopes  destroyed  : 
Roll  on,  vain  days !  full  reckless  may  ye  flow. 
Since  Time  hath  reft  whate'er  my  soul  enjoy'd. 
And  with  the  ills  of  Eld  mine  earlier  years  alloy 'd. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO    THE    THIRD. 


"  Afin  que  cette  application  vous  for^Sf  de  penser  k  autre  chose ;  il 
n'y  a  en  verity  de  remede  que  celui-14  et  le  temps."  —  Lettre  du  Roi 
He  Frusse  h  D'AUtnberi,  Sept.  7,  1776. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S 
PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO  THE  THIRD. 
I. 
Is  thy  face  like  thy  mother's,  my  fair  child ! 
Ada  !  ^  sole  daughter  of  my  house  and  heart  ? 
When  last  I  saw  thy  young  blue  eyes  they  smiled, 
And  then  we  parted,  —  not  as  now  we  part, 
But  with  a  hope.  — 

Awaking  with  a  start. 
The  waters  heave  around  me ;  and  on  high 
The  winds  lift  up  their  voices  :  I  depart, 
Whither  I  know  not ;  but  the  hour's  gone  by. 
When  Albion's  lessening  shores  could  grieve  or  glad 
mine  eye.'' 

II. 
Once  more  upon  the  waters  !  yet  once  more ! 
And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a  steed 
That  knows  his  rider.     Welcome,  to  the  roar ! 
Swift  be  their  guidance,  wheresoe'er  it  lead  ! 
Though  the  strain'd  mast  should  quiver  as  a  reed. 
And  the  rent  canvas  fluttering  strew  the  gale, 
Still  must  I  on ;  for  I  am  as  a  weed, 
Flung  from  the  rock,  on  Ocean's  foam,  to  sail 
Where'er  the  surge  may  sweep,  the  tempest's  breath 
prevail. 

83 


84  CHILDE  HAROLD'S       [canto  hi. 

III. 
In  my  youth^s  summer  I  did  sing  of  One, 
The  wandering  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind  ; 
Again  I  seize  the  theme,  then  but  begun, 
And  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  rushing  wind 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards :  in  that  Tale  I  find 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up  tears. 
Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind, 
O'er  which  all  heavily  the  journeying  years 
Plod  the   last  sands  of  life,  —  where  not  a  flowet 
appears. 

IV. 

Since  my  young  days  of  passion — joy,  or  pain, 
Perchance  my  heart  and  harp  have  lost  a  string. 
And  both  may  jar :  it  may  be,  that  in  vain 
I  would  essay  as  I  have  sung  to  sing. 
Yet,  though  a  dreary  strain,  to  this  I  cling 
So  that  it  wean  me  from  the  weary  dream 
Of  selfish  grief  or  gladness  —  so  it  fling 
Forgetfulness  around  me  —  it  shall  seem 
To  me,  though  to  none  else,  a  not  ungrateful  theme. 

V. 

He,  who  grown  aged  in  this  world  of  woe. 
In  deeds,  not  years,  piercing  the  depths  of  life. 
So  that  no  wonder  waits  him ;  nor  below 
Can  love,  or  sorrow,  fame,  ambition,  strife. 
Cut  to  his  heart  again  with  the  keen  knife 
Of  silent,  sharp  endurance  :  he  can  tell 
Why  thought  seeks  refuge  in  lone  caves,  yet  rife 
With  airy  images,  and  shapes  which  dwell 
Still  unimpaired,  though  old,  in  the  soul's  haunted  cell. 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  85 

VI. 

'Tis  to  create,  and  in  creating  live 
A  being  more  intense,  that  we  endow 
With  form  our  fancy,  gaining  as  we  give 
The  life  we  image,  even  as  I  do  now. 
What  am  I?  Nothing :  but  not  so  art  thou. 
Soul  of  my  thought !  with  whom  I  traverse  earth, 
Invisible  but  gazing,  as  I  glow 
Mix'd  with  thy  spirit,  blended  with  thy  birth, 
And  feeling  still  with  thee  in  my  crush'd  feelings'  dearth. 

VII. 

Yet  must  I  think  less  wildly :  —  I  have  thought 
Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became, 
In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o'erwrought, 
A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame  : 
And  thus,  untaught  in  youth  my  heart  to  tame, 
My  springs  of  life  were  poison'd.     'Tis  too  late ! 
Yet  am  I  changed ;  though  still  enough  the  same 
In  strength  to  bear  what  time  can  not  abate, 
And  feed  on  bitter  fruits  without  accusing  Fate. 

viir. 
Something  too  much  of  this  :  —  but  now  'tis  past. 
And  the  spell  closes  with  its  silent  seal. 
Long  absent  Harold  re-appears  at  last ; 
He  of  the  breast  which  fain  no  more  would  feel, 
Wrung  with  the  wounds  which  kill  not,  but  ne'er 

heal ; 
Yet  Time,  who  changes  all,  had  alter'd  him 
In  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age :  "  years  steal 
Fire  from  the  mind  as  vigor  from  the  limb ; 
And  life's  enchanted  cup  but  sparkles  near  the  brim. 


S6  CHILDE  HAROLD'S        [canto  hi. 

IX. 

His  had  been  quafPd  too  quickly,  and  he  found 
The  dregs  were  wormwood  ;  but  he  fill'd  again, 
And  from  a  purer  fount,  on  holier  ground. 
And  deem'd  its  spring  perpetual ;  but  in  vain ! 
Still  round  him  clung  invisibly  a  chain 
Which  gall'd  forever,  fettering  though  unseen, 
And  heavy  though  it  clank'd  not ;  worn  with  pain. 
Which  pined  although  it  spoke  not,  and  grew  keen, 
Entering  with  every  step  he  took  through  many  a 
scene. 

X. 

Secure  in  guarded  coldness,  he  had  mixt 
Again  in  fancied  safety  with  his  kind. 
And  deem'd  his  spirit  now  so  firmly  fixt, 
And  sheath'd  with  an  invulnerable  mind. 
That,  if  no  joy,  no  sorrow  lurk'd  behind  ; 
And  he,  as  one,  might  midst  the  many  stand 
Unheeded,  searching  through  the  crowd  to  find 
Fit  speculation :  such  as  in  strange  land 
He  found  in  wonder-works  of  God  and  Nature's  hand. 

XI. 

But  who  can  view  the  ripen'd  rose,  nor  seek 
To  wear  it?  who  can  curiously  behold 
The  smoothness  and  the  sheen  of  beauty's  cheek. 
Nor  feel  the  heart  can  never  all  grow  old  ? 
Who  can  contemplate  Fame  through  clouds  unfold 
The  star  which  rises  o'er  her  steep,  nor  climb  .-' 
Harold,  once  more  within  the  vortex,  roll'd 
On  with  the  giddy  circle,  chasing  Time, 
Yet  with  a  nobler  aim  than  in  his  youth's  fond  prime. 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  87 

XII. 

But  soon  he  knew  himself  the  most  unfit 
Of  men  to  herd  with  Man  ;  with  whom  he  held 
Little  in  common ;  untaught  to  submit 
His  thoughts  to  others,  though  his  soul  was  quell'd 
In  youth  by  his  own  thoughts ;  still  uncompell'd, 
He  would  not  yield  dominion  of  his  mind 
To  spirits  against  whom  his  own  rebell'd ; 
Proud  though  in  desolation ;  which  could  find 
A  life  within  itself,  to  breathe  without  mankind. 

XIII. 

Where  rose  the  mountains,  there  to  him  were  friends  ; 
Where  roU'd  the  ocean,  thereon  was  his  home ; 
Where  a  blue  sky,  and  glowing  clime,  extends. 
He  had  the  passion  and  the  power  to  roam  ; 
The  desert,  forest,  cavern,  breaker's  foam. 
Were  unto  him  companionship  ;  they  spake 
A  mutual  language,  clearer  than  the  tome 
Of  his  land's  tongue,  which  he  would  oft  forsake 
For  Nature's  pages  glass'd  by  sunbeams  on  the  lake. 

XIV. 

Like  the  Chaldean,  he  could  watch  the  stars. 
Till  he  had  peopled  them  with  beings  bright 
As  their  own  beams  ;  and  earth,  and  earth-born  jars, 
And  human  frailties,  were  forgotten  quite  : 
Could  he  have  kept  his  spirit  to  that  flight, 
He  had  been  happy ;  but  this  clay  will  sink 
Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  the  light 
To  which  it  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the  link 
That  keeps  us  from  yon  heaven  which  wooes  us  to  its 
brink. 


88  CHILDE  HAROLD'S        [CANTO  III. 

XV. 

But  in  Man^s  dwellings  he  became  a  thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stern  and  wearisome, 
Droop'd  as  a  wild-born  falcon  with  dipt  wing. 
To  whom  the  boundless  air  alone  were  home : 
Then  came  his  fit  again,  which  to  overcome, 
As  eagerly  the  barr'd-up  bird  will  beat 
His  breast  and  beak  against  his  wiry  dome 
Till  the  blood  tinge  his  plumage,  so  the  heat 
Of  his  impeded  soul  would  through  his  bosom  eat. 

XVI. 

Self-exiled  Harold*  wanders  forth  again, 

With  naught  of  hope  left,  but  with  less  of  gloom; 

The  very  knowledge  that  he  lived  in  vain. 

That  all  was  over  on  this  side  the  tomb, 

Had  made  Despair  a  smilingness  assume, 

Which,  though  'twere  wild,  —  as  on  the  plunder'd 

wreck 
When  mariners  would  madly  meet  their  doom 
With  draughts  intemperate  on  the  sinking  deck,  — 
Did  yet  inspire  a  cheer,  which  he  forebore  to  check.* 

XVII. 

Stop  !  —  for  thy  tread  is  on  an  Empire's  dust ! 
An  Earthquake's  spoil  is  sepulchred  below  ! 
Is  the  spot  mark'd  with  no  colossal  bust? 
Nor  column  trophied  for  triumphal  show  ? 
None ;  but  the  moral's  truth  tells  simpler  so. 
As  the  ground  was  before,  thus  let  it  be ;  — 
How  that  red  rain  hath  made  the  harvest  grow ! 
And  is  this  all  the  world  has  gain'd  by  thee. 
Thou  first  and  last  of  fields  !  king-making  Victory? 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  89 

XVIII. 

And  Harold  stands  upon  this  place  of  skulls, 
The  grave  of  France,  the  deadly  Waterloo ; 
How  in  an  hour  the  power  which  gave  annuls 
Its  gifts,  transferring  fame  as  fleeting  too ! 
In  "  pride  of  place  "  *  here  last  the  eagle  flew. 
Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain. 
Pierced  by  the  shaft  of  banded  nations  through  ; 
Ambition's  life  and  labors  all  were  vain ; 
He  wears  the  shatter'd  links  of  the  world's  broken 
chain. 

XIX. 

Fit  retribution  !  Gaul  may  champ  the  bit 
And  foam  in  fetters  ;  —  but  is  Earth  more  free  ? 
Did  nations  combat  to  make  One  submit ; 
Or  league  to  teach  all  kings  true  sovereignty? 
What  !  shall  reviving  Thraldom  again  be 
The  patch'd-up  idol  of  enlighten'd  days  ? 
Shall  we,  who  struck  the  Lion  down,  shall  we 
Pay  the  Wolf  homage?  proffering  lowly  gaze 
And  servile  knees  to  thrones?   No;  prove  before  ye 
praise ! 

XX. 

If  not,  o'er  one  fallen  despot  boast  no  more  ! 
In  vain  fair  cheeks  were  furrow'd  with  hot  tears 
For  Europe's  flowers  long  rooted  up  before 
The  trampler  of  her  vineyards  ;  in  vain  years 
Of  death,  depopulation,  bondage,  fears, 
Have  all  been  borne,  and  broken  by  the  accord 
Of  roused-up  millions  :  all  that  most  endears 
Glory,  is  when  the  myrtle  wreathes  a  sword 
Such  as  Harmodius '  drew  on  Athens'  tyrant  lord. 


go  r\       CHILDE  HAROLD'S       [canto  iil 

XXI. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night,^ 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell ;  ' 
But  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising 
kneU! 

XXII. 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?  —  No;  'twas  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconfined ; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet  — 
But,  hark  !  —  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before ! 
Arm  !    Arm  !    it   is  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's   opening 
roar! 

XXIII. 

Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain ;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival. 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear ; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem'd  it  near. 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier,  i" 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell : 
He  rush'd  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell." 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  91 


Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro,         •■ 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness  ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated  ;  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes. 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could 
rise! 

XXV. 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car. 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed. 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips,  —  "  The  foe  !     They 
come  !  they  come  ! " 

XXVI. 

And  wild  and  high  the  "Cameron's  gathering"  rose ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have    heard,   and    heard,   too,  have    her    Saxon 

foes :  — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill !     But  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 


92  CHILDE  HAROLD'S        [canto  iil 

The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And  Evan's,   Donald's  '■^  fame  rings  in  each  clans- 


man s  ears 


XXVII. 

And  Ardennes  ^'  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave,  —  alas ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and 
low. 

XXVIII. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife. 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms,  —  the  day 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  cover'd  thick  with  other  clay. 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd  and  pent. 
Rider  and  horse,  —  friend,  foe, — in  one  red  burial 
blent ! " 

XXIX. 

Their    praise    is    hymn'd    by  loftier   harps   than 

mine; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line. 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  sire  some  wrong. 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song ; 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  93 

And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  shower'd 
The  death-bolts  deadliest  the  thinn'd  files  along. 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war's  tempest  lower'd. 
They  reach'd  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young, 
gallant  Howard ! 

XXX. 

There  have  been  tears  and  breaking  hearts  for  thee, 
And  mine  were  nothing,  had  I  such  to  give ; 
But  when  I  stood  beneath  the  fresh  green  tree. 
Which  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to  live. 
And  saw  around  me  the  wide  field  revive 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  Spring 
Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive. 
With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 
I  turn'd  from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could  not 
bring.^* 

XXXI. 

I  turn'd  to  thee,  to  thousands,  of  whom  each 

And  one  as  all  a  ghastly  gap  did  make 

In  his  own  kind  and  kindred,  whom  to  teach 

Forgetfulness  were  mercy  for  their  sake  ; 

The  Archangel's  trump,  not  Glory's,  must  awake 

Those  whom  they  thirst  for ;  though  the  sound  of 

Fame 
May  for  a  moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 
The  fever  of  vain  longing,  and  the  name 
So  honor'd  but  assumes  a  stronger,  bitterer  claim. 

xxxir. 
They  mourn,  but  smile  at  length ;  and,  smiling, 

mourn : 
The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall ; 


94  CHILDE  HAROLD'S       [canto  hi. 

The  hull  drives   on,   though    mast   and   sail   be 

torn; 
The  roof-tree  sinks,  but  moulders  on  the  hall 
In  massy  hoariness  ;  the  ruin'd  wall 
Stands  when  its  wind-worn  battlements  are  gone  ; 
The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  enthral ; 
The  day  drags  through,  though  storms  keep  out  the 

sun; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on : 


Even  as  a  broken  mirror,  which  the  glass 
In  every  fragment  multiplies  ;  and  makes 
A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was. 
The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it  breaks ; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  forsakes. 
Living  in  shatter'd  guise,  and  still,  and  cold, 
And  bloodless,  with  its  sleepless  sorrow  aches, 
Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old. 
Showing  no  visible  sign,  for  such  things  are  untold. ^^ 


There  is  a  very  life  in  our  despair, 
Vitality  of  poison, — a  quick  root 
Which  feeds  these  deadly  branches  ;  for  it  were 
As  nothing  did  we  die ;  but  Life  will  suit 
Itself  to  Sorrow's  most  detested  fruit. 
Like  to  the  apples  "  on  the  Dead  Sea's  shore. 
All  ashes  to  the  taste :  Did  man  compute 
Existence  by  enjoyment,  and  count  o'er 
Such   hours  'gainst   years   of  life,  —  say,  would   he 
name  threescore? 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  95 

XXXV. 

The  Psalmist  number'd  out  the  years  of  man : 
They  are  enough  ;  and  if  thy  tale  be  true. 
Thou,  who  didst  grudge  him  even  that  fleeting  span, 
More  than  enough,  thou  fatal  Waterloo ! 
Millions  of  tongues  record  thee,  and  anew 
Their  children's  lips  shall  echo  them,  and  say  — 
"  Here,  where  the  sword  united  nations  drew, 
"  Our  countrymen  were  warring  on  that  day ! " 
And  this  is  much,  and  all  which  will  not  pass  away. 

XXXVI. 

There  sunk  the  greatest,  nor  the  worst  of  men. 
Whose  spirit  antithetically  mixt 
One  moment  of  the  mightiest,  and  again 
On  little  objects  with  like  firmness  fixt, 
Extreme  in  all  things  !  hadst  thou  been  betwixt, 
Thy  throne  had  still  been  thine,  or  never  been ; 
For  daring  made  thy  rise  as  fall :  thou  seek'st 
Even  now  to  re-assume  the  imperial  mien. 
And  shake  again  the  world,  the  Thunderer  of  the 
scene ! 

XXXVII. 

Conqueror  and  captive  of  the  earth  art  thou ! 
She  trembles  at  thee  still,  and  thy  wild  name 
Was  ne'er  more  bruited  in  men's  minds  than  now 
That  thou  art  nothing,  save  the  jest  of  Fame, 
Who  woo'd  thee  once,  thy  vassal,  and  became 
The  flatterer  of  thy  fierceness,  till  thou  wert 
A  god  unto  thyself;  nor  less  the  same 
To  the  astounded  kingdoms  all  inert, 
Who  deem'd  thee  for  a  time  whate'er  thou  didst  assert. 


96  CHILD E  HAROLD'S        [canto  hi. 

XXXVIII. 

Oh,  more  or  less  than  man  —  in  high  or  low. 
Battling  with  nations,  flying  from  the  field  ; 
Now  making  monarchs'  necks  thy  footstool,  now 
More  than  thy  meanest  soldier  taught  to  yield  ; 
An  empire  thou  couldst  crush,  command,  rebuild. 
But  govern  not  thy  pettiest  passion,  nor, 
However  deeply  in  men's  spirits  skill'd. 
Look  through  thine  own,  nor  curb  the  lust  of  war. 
Nor  learn  that  tempted  Fate  will  leave  the  loftiest 
star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet  well  thy  soul  hath  brook'd  the  turning  tide 
With  that  untaught  innate  philosophy. 
Which,  be  it  wisdom,  coldness,  or  deep  pride, 
Is  gall  and  wormwood  to  an  enemy. 
When  the  whole  host  of  hatred  stood  hard  by, 
To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou  hast  smiled 
With  a  sedate  and  all-enduring  eye  ;  — 
When  Fortune  fled  her  spoil'd  and  favorite  child. 
He  stood  unbow'd  beneath  the  ills  upon  him  piled. 

XL. 

Sager  than  in  thy  fortunes ;  for  in  them 
Ambition  steePd  thee  on  too  far  to  show 
That  just  habitual  scorn,  which  could  contemn 
Men  and  their  thoughts ;  'twas  wise  to  feel,  not  so 
To  wear  it  ever  on  thy  lip  and  brow. 
And  spurn  the  instruments  thou  wert  to  use 
Till  they  were  turn'd  unto  thine  overthrow ; 
'Tis  but  a  worthless  world  to  win  or  lose ; 
So  hath  it  proved  to  thee,  and  all  such  lot  who  choose. 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  97 

XLI. 

If,  like  a  tower  upon  a  headlong  rock, 
Thou  hadst  been  made  to  stand  or  fall  alone, 
Such  scorn  of  man  had  help'd  to  brave  the  shock ; 
But  men's  thoughts  were  the  steps  which  paved 

thy  throne. 
Their  admiration  thy  best  weapon  shone ; 
The  part  of  Philip's  son  was  thine,  not  then 
(Unless  aside  thy  purple  had  been  thrown) 
Like  stern  Diogenes  to  mock  at  men ; 
For  sceptred  cynics  earth  were  far  too  wide  a  den.^* 

XLII. 

But  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a  hell, 
And  there  hath  been  thy  bane ;  there  is  a  fire 
And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not  dwell 
In  its  own  narrow  being,  but  aspire 
Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire  ; 
And,  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  evermore. 
Preys  upon  high  adventure,  nor  can  tire 
Of  aught  but  rest ;  a  fever  at  the  core. 
Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore. 

XLIII. 

This  makes  the  madmen  who  have  made  men  mad 
By  their  contagion ;  Conquerors  and  Kings, 
Founders  of  sects  and  systems,  to  whom  add 
Sophists,  Bards,  Statesmen,  all  unquiet  things 
Which  stir  too  strongly  the  soul's  secret  springs. 
And  are  themselves  the  fools  to  those  they  fool ; 
Envied,  yet  how  unenviable  !  what  stings 
Are  theirs  !     One  breast  laid  open  were  a  school 
Which  would  unteach  mankind  the  lust  to  shine  orrule : 


98  CHILDE  HAROLD'S        [canto  hi 

XLIV. 

Their  breath  is  agitation,  and  their  life 
A  storm  whereon  they  ride,  to  sink  at  last, 
And  yet  so  nursed  and  bigoted  to  strife. 
That  should  their  days,  surviving  perils  past, 
Melt  to  calm  twilight,  they  feel  overcast 
With  sorrow  and  supineness,  and  so  die ; 
Even  as  a  flame  unfed,  which  runs  to  waste 
With  its  own  flickering,  or  a  sword  laid  by. 
Which  eats  into  itself,  and  rusts  ingloriously. 

XLV. 

He  who  ascends  to  mountain-tops,  shall  find 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and  snow ; 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind, 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow. 
And  far  beneath  the  earth  and  ocean  spread. 
Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head. 
And  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits 
led.i9 

XLVI. 

Away  with  these  !  true  Wisdom's  world  will  bt 
Within  its  own  creation,  or  in  thine. 
Maternal  Nature !  for  who  teems  like  thee. 
Thus  on  the  banks  of  thy  majestic  Rhine  ? 
There  Harold  gazes  on  a  work  divine, 
A  blending  of  all  beauties  ;  streams  and  dells, 
Fruit,  foliage,  crag,  wood,  cornfield,  mountain,  vine. 
And  chiefless  castles  breathing  stern  farewells 
From  gray  but  leafy  walls,  where  Ruin  greenly  dwells. 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  99 

XL  VII. 

And  there  they  stand,  as  stands  a  lofty  mind, 
Worn,  but  unstooping  to  the  baser  crowd. 
All  tenantless,  save  to  the  crannying  wind. 
Or  holding  dark  communion  with  the  cloud. 
There  was  a  day  when  they  were  young  and  proud, 
Banners  on  high,  and  battles  passM  below ; 
But  they  who  fought  are  in  a  bloody  shroud, 
And  those  which  waved  are  shredless  dust  ere  now. 
And  the  bleak  battlements  shall  bear  no  future  blow. 

XLVIII. 

Beneath  these  battlements,  within  those  walls, 
Power  dwelt  amidst  her  passions  ;  in  proud  state 
Each  robber  chief  upheld  his  armed  halls, 
Doing  his  evil  will,  nor  less  elate 
Than  mightier  heroes  of  a  longer  date. 
What  want  these  outlaws*  conquerors  should  have .' 
But  History's  purchased  page  to  call  them  great  ? 
A  wider  space,  an  ornamented  grave  ? 
Their  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  their  souls  were  full 
as  brave. 

XLIX. 

In  their  baronial  feuds  and  single  fields. 
What  deeds  of  prowess  unrecorded  died  ! 
And  Love,  which  lent  a  blazon  to  their  shields. 
With  emblems  well  devised  by  amorous  pride. 
Through  all  the  mail  of  iron  hearts  would  glide ; 
But  still  their  flame  was  fierceness,  and  drew  on 
Keen  contest  and  destruction  near  allied. 
And  many  a  tower  for  some  fair  mischief  won. 
Saw  the  discolor'd  Rhine  beneath  its  ruin  run. 


lOO  CHILDE  HAROLD'S       [canto  hi. 

L. 

But  Thou,  exulting  and  abounding  river ! 
Making  their  waves  a  blessing  as  they  flow 
Through  banks  whose  beauty  would  endure  for  ever 
Could  man  but  leave  thy  bright  creation  so, 
Nor  its  fair  promise  from  the  surface  mow 
With  the  sharp  scythe  of  conflict,  —  then  to  see 
Thy  valley  of  sweet  waters,  were  to  know 
Earth  paved  like  Heaven ;  and  to  seem  such  to  me, 
Even  now  what  wants  thy  stream  ?  —  that  it  should 
Lethe  be. 

LI. 

A  thousand  battles  have  assaiPd  thy  banks, 
But  these  and  half  their  fame  have  pass'd  away, 
And  Slaughter  heap'd  on  high  his  weltering  ranks ; 
Their  very  graves  are  gone,  and  what  are  they? 
Thy  tide  wash'd  down  the  blood  of  yesterday, 
And  all  was  stainless,  and  on  thy  clear  stream 
Glass'd  with  its  dancing  light  the  sunny  ray ; 
But  o'er  the  blacken'd  memory's  blighting  dream 
Thy  waves  would  vainly  roll,  all  sweeping  as  they  seem. 

LII. 

Thus  Harold  inly  said,  and  pass'd  along. 
Yet  not  insensibly  to  all  which  here 
Awoke  the  jocund  birds  to  early  song 
In  glens  which  might  have  made  even  exile  dear: 
Though  on  his  brow  were  graven  lines  austere, 
And  tranquil  sternness  which  had  ta'en  the  place 
Of  feelings  fierier  far  but  less  severe ; 
Joy  was  not  always  absent  from  his  face, 
But  o'er  it  in  such  scenes  would  steal  with  transient 
trace. 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  lOl 

LIU. 
Nor  was  all  love  shut  from  him,  though  his  days 
Of  passion  had  consumed  themselves  to  dust. 
It  is  in  vain  that  we  could  coldly  gaze 
On  such  as  smile  upon  us  ;  the  heart  must 
Leap  kindly  back  to  kindness,  though  disgust 
Hath  wean'd  it  from  all  worldlings :  thus  he  felt. 
For  there  was  soft  remembrance,  and  sweet  trust 
In  one  fond  breast,  to  which  his  own  would  melt. 
And  in  its  tenderer  hour  on  that  his  bosom  dwelt. 

LIV. 

And  he  had  learnM  to  love,  —  I  know  not  why, 
For  this  in  such  as  him  seems  strange  of  mood,  — 
The  helpless  looks  of  blooming  infancy, 
Even  in  its  earliest  nurture  ;  what  subdued. 
To  change  like  this,  a  mind  so  far  imbued 
With  scorn  of  man,  it  little  boots  to  know ; 
But  thus  it  was  ;  and  though  in  solitude 
Small  power  the  nipp'd  affections  have  to  grow, 
In  him  this  glow'd  when  all  beside  had  ceased  to  glow. 

LV. 

And  there  was  one  soft  breast,  as  hath  been  said. 
Which  unto  his  was  bound  by  stronger  ties 
Than  the  church  links  withal ;  and,  though  unwed, 
That  love  was  pure,  and,  far  above  disguise, 
Had  stood  the  test  of  mortal  enmities, 
Still  undivided,  and  cemented  more 
By  peril,  dreaded  most  in  female  eyes; 
But  this  was  firm,  and  from  a  foreign  shore 
Well  to  that  heart  might  his  these  absent  greetings 
pour! 


102  CHILD E  HAROLD'S  [canto  lit 

I. 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels  ^^ 
Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossom'd  trees. 
And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine. 
And  scatter'd  cities  crowning  these. 
Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine. 
Have  strew'd  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me. 

2. 

And  peasant  girls,  with  deep  blue  eyes. 

And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers. 

Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise  ; 

Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 

Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray. 

And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers. 

And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay. 

Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers  ; 

But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine,  — 

Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine ! 

3- 

I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me ; 
Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch, 
I  know  that  they  must  wither'd  be, 
But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such  ; 
For  I  have  cherish'd  them  as  dear. 
Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye. 
And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here, 
When  thou  behold'st  them  drooping  nigh. 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  103 

And  know'st  them  gather'd  by  the  Rhine, 
And  offer'd  from  mine  heart  to  thine ! 


4- 
The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 
The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground. 
And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 
Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round  : 
The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 
Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here ; 
Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 
To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 
Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 
Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine  ! 

LVI. 

By  Coblentz,  on  a  rise  of  gentle  ground. 
There  is  a  small  and  simple  pyramid. 
Crowning  the  summit  of  the  verdant  mound  ; 
Beneath  its  base  are  heroes'  ashes  hid. 
Our  enemy's  —  but  let  not  that  forbid 
Honor  to  Marceau !  o'er  whose  early  tomb 
Tears,  big  tears,  gush'd  from  the  rough  soldier's  lid. 
Lamenting  and  yet  envying  such  a  doom. 
Falling  for  France,  whose  rights  he  battled  to  resume. 

LVII. 

Brief,  brave,  and  glorious  was  his  young  career,  — • 
His  mourners  were  two  hosts,  his  friends  and  foes; 
And  fitly  may  the  stranger  lingering  here 
Pray  for  his  gallant  spirit's  bright  repose; 
For  he  was  Freedom's  champion,  one  of  those, 
The  few  in  number,  who  had  not  o'erstept 


I04  CHJLDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  iil 

The  charter  to  chastise  which  she  bestows 
On  such  as  wield  her  weapons ;  he  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o'er  him 
wept.^ 

LVIII. 

Here  Ehrenbreitstein,28  with  her  shattered  wall 
Black  with  the  miner's  blast,  upon  her  height 
Yet  shows  of  what  she  was,  when  shell  and  ball 
Rebounding  idly  on  her  strength  did  light : 
A  tower  of  victory  !  from  whence  the  flight 
Of  baffled  foes  was  watch 'd  along  the  plain : 
But  Peace  destroyed  what  War  could  never  blight. 
And  laid  those  proud  roofs  bare  to  Summer's  rain  — 

On  which  the  iron  shower  for  years  had  pour'd  in 
vain. 

LIX. 
Adieu  to  thee,  fair  Rhine !     How  long  delighted 
The  stranger  fain  would  linger  on  his  way ! 
Thine  is  a  scene  alike  where  souls  united 
Or  lonely  Contemplation  thus  might  stray ; 
And  could  the  ceaseless  vultures  cease  to  prey 
On  self-condemning  bosoms,  it  were  here, 
Where  Nature,  nor  too  sombre  nor  too  gay. 
Wild,  but  not  rude,  awful,  yet  not  austere. 

Is  to  the  mellow  Earth  as  Autumn  to  the  year. 

LX. 

Adieu  to  thee  again  !  a  vain  adieu  I 

There  can  be  no  farewell  to  scene  like  thine ; 

The  mind  is  color'd  by  thy  every  hue ; 

And  if  reluctantly  the  eyes  resign 

Their  cherish'd  gaze  upon  thee,  lovely  Rhine !  ^ 

'Tis  with  the  thankful  glance  of  parting  praise ; 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  105 

More  mighty  spots  may  rise  —  more  glaring  shine, 
But  none  unite  in  one  attaching  maze 
The  brilliant,  fair,  and  soft,  —  the  glories  of  old  days, 

LXI. 

The  negligently  grand,  the  fruitful  bloom 
Of  coming  ripeness,  the  white  city's  sheen, 
The  rolling  stream,  the  precipice's  gloom. 
The  forest's  growth,  and  Gothic  walls  between. 
The  wild  rocks  shaped  as  they  had  turrets  been 
In  mockery  of  man's  art ;  and  these  withal 
A  race  of  faces  happy  as  the  scene. 
Whose  fertile  bounties  here  extend  to  all. 
Still  springing  o'er  thy  banks,  though  Empires  near 
them  fall. 

LXII. 

But  these  recede.     Above  me  are  the  Alps, 
The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vast  walls 
Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps. 
And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The  avalanche  —  the  thunderbolt  of  snow  ! 
All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appals. 
Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show 
How  Earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave  vain 
man  below. 

LXIII. 

But  ere  these  matchless  heights  I  dare  to  scan. 
There  is  a  spot  should  not  be  pass'd  in  vain,  — 
Morat !  the  proud,  the  patriot  field  !  where  man 
May  gaze  on  ghastly  trophies  of  the  slain. 
Nor  blush  for  those  who  conquer'd  on  that  plain ; 
Here  Burgundy  bcqueath'd  liis  tombless  host, 


Io6  CHILDE  HAROLD'' S        [canto  iil 

A  bony  heap,  through  ages  to  remain, 
Themselves  their  monument ;  —  the  Stygian  coast 
Unsepulchred  they  roam'd,  and  shriek'd  each  wan- 
dering ghost  .^ 

Lxrv. 
While  Waterloo  with  Cannae's  carnage  vies, 
Morat  and  Marathon  twin  names  shall  stand ; 
They  were  true  Glory's  stainless  victories. 
Won  by  the  unambitious  heart  and  hand 
Of  a  proud,  brotherly,  and  civic  band. 
All  unbought  champions  !u  no  princely  cause 
Of  vice-entail'd  Corruption ;  they  no  land 
Doom'd  to  bewail  the  blasphemy  of  laws 
Making    kings'    rights    divine,    by    some    Draconic 
clause. 

LXV. 

By  a  lone  wall  a  lonelier  column  rears 
A  gray  and  grief-worn  aspect  of  old  days  ; 
'Tis  the  last  remnant  of  the  wreck  of  years. 
And  looks  as  with  the  wild-bewilder'd  gaze 
Of  one  to  stone  converted  by  amaze, 
Yet  still  with  consciousness ;  and  there  it  stands. 
Making  a  marvel  that  it  not  decays, 
When  the  coeval  pride  of  human  hands, 
Levell'd  Aventicum,'^  hath  strew'd  her  subject  lands. 

LXVI. 

And  there  —  oh  !  sweet  and  sacred  be  the  name !  — 
Julia  —  the  daughter,  the  devoted  —  gave 
Her  youth  to  Heaven  ;  her  heart,  beneath  a  claim 
Nearest  to  Heaven's,  broke  o'er  a  father's  grave. 
Justice  is  sworn  'gainst  tears,  and  hers  would  crave 


CANTO  HI.]  PILGRIMAGE.  107 

The  life  she  lived  in  ;  but  the  judge  was  just, 
And  then  she  died  on  him  she  could  not  save. 
Their  tomb  was  simple,  and  without  a  bust, 
And  held  within  their  urn  one  mind,  one  heart,  one 
dust.2T 

LXVII. 

But  these  are  deeds  which  should  not  pass  away. 
And  names  that  must  not  wither,  though  the  earth 
Forgets  her  empires  with  a  just  decay. 
The  enslavers  and  the  enslaved,  their  death  and 

birth ; 
The  high,  the  mountain-majesty  of  worth 
Should  be,  and  shall,  survivor  of  its  woe, 
And  from  its  immortality  look  forth 
In  the  sun's  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow,'^^ 
Imperishably  pure  beyond  all  things  below. 

LXVIII. 

Lake  Leman  woos  me  with  its  crystal  face,'^ 

The  mirror  where  the  stars  and  mountains  view 

f 

The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace 
Its  clear  depth  yields  of  their  far  height  and  hue : 
There  is  too  much  of  man  here,  to  look  through 
With  a  fit  mind  the  might  which  I  behold ; 
But  soon  in  me  shall  Loneliness  renew 
Thoughts  hid,  but  not  less  cherish'd  than  of  old, 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  had  penned  me  in  their 
fold. 

LXIX. 

To  fly  from,  need  not  be  to  hate,  mankind  : 
All  are  not  fit  with  them  to  stir  and  toil, 
Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind 
Deep  in  its  fountain,  lest  it  overboil 


io8  CHILDE  HAROLD'S        [canto  hi. 

In  the  hot  throng,  where  we  become  the  spoil 
Of  our  infection,  till  too  late  and  long 
We  may  deplore  and  struggle  with  the  coil, 
In  wretched  interchange  of  wrong  for  wrong 
Midst  a  contentious  world,  striving  where  none  are 
strong. 

LXX. 

There,  in  a  moment,  we  may  plunge  our  years 
In  fatal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 
Of  our  own  soul  turn  all  our  blood  to  tears. 
And  color  things  to  come  with  hues  of  Night ; 
The  race  of  life  becomes  a  hopeless  flight 
To  those  that  walk  in  darkness :  on  the  sea, 
The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports  invite  ; 
But  there  are  wanderers  o'er  Eternity 

Whose  bark  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchor'd  ne'er 
shall  be. 

Lxxr. 
Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone. 
And  love  Earth  only  for  its  earthly  sake? 
By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone,** 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake. 
Which  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 
A  fair  but  froward  infant  her  own  care. 
Kissing  its  cries  away  as  these  awake ;  — 
Is  it  not  better  thus  our  lives  to  wear. 

Than  join  the  prushing  crowd,  doom'd  to  inflict  or 
bear  ? 

LXXII. 

I  live  not  in  myself,  but  I  become 
Portion  of  that  around  me  ;  and  to  me 
High  mountains  are  a  feeling,'*  but  the  hum 
Of  human  cities  torture :  I  can  see 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  109 

Nothing  to  loathe  in  nature,  save  to  be 
A  link  reluctant  in  a  fleshly  chain, 
Class'd  among  creatures,  when  the  soul  can  flee, 
And  with  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  heaving  plain 
Of  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and  not  in  vain. 

LXXIII. 

And  thus  I  am  absorbed,  and  this  is  life ; 
I  look  upon  the  peopled  desert  past, 
As  on  a  place  of  agony  and  strife. 
Where,  for  some  sin,  to  sorrow  I  was  cast, 
To  act  and  suffer,  but  remount  at  last 
With  a  fresh  pinion ;  which  I  feel  to  spring, 
Tliough  young,  yet  waxing  vigorous,  as  the  blast 
Which  it  would  cope  with,  on  delighted  wing, 
Spurning  the  clay-cold  bonds  which  round  our  being 
cling. 

LXXIV. 

And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  shall  be  all  free 
From  what  it  hates  in  this  degraded  form. 
Reft  of  its  carnal  life,  save  what  shall  be 
Existent  happier  in  the  fly  and  worm,  — 
When  elements  to  elements  conform. 
And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall  I  not 
Feel  all  I  see,  less  dazzling,  but  more  warm? 
The  bodiless  thought  ?  the  Spirit  of  each  spot  ? 
Of  which,  even  now,  I  share  at  times  the  immortal 
lot? 

LXXV. 

Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  skies,  a  part 
Of  me  and  of  my  soul,  as  I  of  them  ? 
Is  not  the  love  of  these  deep  in  my  heart 
With  a  pure  passion?  should  I  not  contemn 


no  CHILDE  HAROLD'S        [canto  iil 

All  objects,  if  compared  with  these  ?  and  stem 
A  tide  of  suffering,  rather  than  forego 
Such  feelings  for  the  hard  and  worldly  phlegm 
Of  those  whose  eyes  are  only  turn'd  below, 
Gazing  upon  the  ground,  with  thoughts  which  dare 
not  glow  ? 

LXXVI. 

But  this  is  not  my  theme ;  and  I  return 
To  that  which  is  immediate,  and  require 
Those  who  find  contemplation  in  the  urn. 
To  look  on  One,  whose  dust  was  once  all  fire, 
A  native  of  the  land  where  I  respire 
The  clear  air  for  a  while  —  a  passing  guest. 
Where  he  became  a  being,  —  whose  desire 
Was  to  be  glorious  ;  'twas  a  foolish  quest. 
The  which  to  gain  and  keep,  he  sacrificed  all  rest. 

LXXVII. 

Here  the  self-torturing  sophist,  wild  Rousseau,** 
The  apostle  of  affliction,  he  who  threw 
Enchantment  over  passion,  and  from  woe 
Wrung  overwhelming  eloquence,  first  drew 
The  breath  which  made  him  wretched ;  yet  he  knew 
How  to  make  madness  beautiful,  and  cast 
O'er  erring  deeds  and  thoughts  a  heavenly  hue  8' 
Of  words,  like  sunbeams,  dazzling  as  they  past 
The  eyes,  which  o'er  them  shed  tears  feelingly  and 
fast. 

LXXVIII. 

His  love  was  passion's  essence  —  as  a  tree 
On  fire  by  lightning ;  with  ethereal  flame 
Kindled  he  was,  and  blasted ;  for  to  be 
Thus,  and  enamour'd,  were  in  him  the  same. 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  Ill 

But  his  was  not  the  love  of  living  dame, 
Nor  of  the  dead  who  rise  upon  our  dreams, 
But  of  ideal  beauty,  which  became 
In  him  existence,  and  o'erflowing  teems 
Along  his  burning  page,  distemper'd  though  it  seems. 

LXXIX. 

This  breathed  itself  to  life  in  Julie,  this 
Invested  her  with  all  that's  wild  and  sweet ; 
This  hallow'd,  too,  the  memorable  kiss  ^^ 
Which  every  morn  his  fever'd  lip  would  greet. 
From  hers,  who  but  with  friendship  his  would  meet ; 
But  to  that  gentle  touch,  through  brain  and  breast 
Flash'd  the  thrill'd  spirit's  love-devouring  heat ; 
In  that  absorbing  sigh  perchance  more  blest 
Than    vulgar    minds    may    be    with    all    they   seek 
possest.** 

LXXX. 

His  life  was  one  long  war  with  self-sought  foes, 
Or  friends  by  him  self-banish'd  ;  for  his  mind 
Had  grown  Suspicion's  sanctuary,  and  chose, 
For  its  own  cruel  sacrifice,  the  kind 
'Gainst  whom  he  raged  with  fury  strange  and  blind. 
But  he  was  frenzied, — wherefore,  who  may  know? 
Since  cause  might  be  which  skill  could  never  find  ; 
But  he  was  frenzied  by  disease  or  woe. 
To  that  worst  pitch  of  all,  which  wears  a  reasoning 
show. 

LXXXI. 

For  then  he  was  inspired,  and  from  him  came, 
As  from  the  Pythian's  mystic  cave  of  yore. 
Those  oracles  which  set  the  world  in  flame, 
Nor  ceased  to  burn  till  kingdoms  were  no  more : 


112  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  lit 

Did  he  not  this  for  France  ?  which  lay  before 
Bow'd  to  the  inborn  tjTanny  of  years? 
Broken  and  trembling  to  the  yoke  she  bore, 
Till  by  the  voice  of  him  and  his  compeers 
Roused  up  to  too  much  wrath,  which  follows  o'er- 
grown  fears? 

LXXXII. 

They  made  themselves  a  fearful  monument ! 
The  wreck  of  old  opinions  —  things  which  grew, 
Breathed  from  the  birth  of  time  :  the  veil  they  rent. 
And  what  behind  it  lay  all  earth  shall  view. 
But  good  with  ill  they  also  overthrew, 
Leaving  but  ruins,  wherewith  to  rebuild 
Upon  the  same  foundation,  and  renew 
Dungeons  and  thrones,  which  the  same  hour  refill'd. 
As  heretofore,  because  ambition  was  self-wiU'd. 

LXXXIII. 

But  this  will  not  endure,  nor  be  endured  ! 
Mankind  have  felt  their  strength,  and  made  it  felt. 
They  might  have  used  it  better,  but,  allured 
By  their  new  vigor,  sternly  have  they  dealt 
On  one  another ;  pity  ceased  to  melt 
With  her  once  natural  charities.     But  they, 
Who  in  oppression's  darkness  caved  had  dwelt, 
They  were  not  eagles,  nourished  with  the  day ; 
What  marvel,  then,  at  times,  if  they  mistook  their 
prey? 

LXXXIV. 

What  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a  scar? 
The  heart's  bleed  longest,  and  but  heal  to  wear 
That  which  disfigures  it ;  and  they  who  war 
With  their  own  hopes,  and  have  been  vanquished, 
bear 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  IJ3 

Silence,  but  not  submission  :  in  his  lair 
Fix'd  Passion  holds  his  breath,  until  the  hour 
Which  shall  atone  for  years ;  none  need  despair : 
It  came,  it  cometh,  and  will  come,  —  the  power 
To  punish  or  forgive  —  in  one  we  shall  be  slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear,  placid  Leraan  !  thy  contrasted  lake. 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction  ;  once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  Sister's  voice  reproved. 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so 
moved. 

LXXXVI. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen. 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep  ;  and  drawing.near. 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar. 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more ; 

LXXXVII. 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 


114  CHILDE  HAROLD'S        [canto  hi. 

There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill, 
But  that  is  fancy ;  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues.*' 

Lxxxvin. 
Ye  stars  !  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven, 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires,  —  'tis  to  be  forgiven, 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great. 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you ;  for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar. 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  them- 
selves a  star. 

LXXXIX. 

All   heaven  and   earth  are  still  —  though  not   in 

sleep. 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most ; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep :  — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still :  From  the  high  host 
Of  stars,  to  the  lulPd  lake  and  mountain-coast. 
All  is  concenter'd  in  a  life  intense. 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost. 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 

xc. 
Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone  ; 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  I15 

A  truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth  melt 

And  purifies  from  self:  it  is  a  tone, 

The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 

Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm. 

Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone, 

Binding  all  things  with  beauty ;  —  'twould  disarm 

The  spectre   Death,   had   he   substantial   power   to 
harm. 

xci. 
Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of  earth-o'ergazing  mountains,'''  and  thus  take 
A  fit  and  unwall'd  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  Spirit  in  whose  honor  shrines  are  weak, 
Uprear'd  of  human  hands.     Come,  and  compare 
Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth  or  Greek, 
With  Nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  and  air. 

Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  pray'r ! 

XCII. 

The  sky  is  changed! — and  such  a  change !  Oh  night. 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong. 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  !  Far  along. 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder !     Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud. 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud ! 

XCIII. 
And  this  is  in  the  night :  —  Most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber '.  let  me  be 


Ii6  CHILDE  HAROLD'S        [canto  iil 

A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight,  — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  !  ^^ 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea. 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth ! 
And  now  again  His  black,  —  and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth. 
As  if  they  did   rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's 
birth. «» 

xcrv. 
Now, where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way  between 
Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 
That   they  can   meet   no   more,   though   broken- 
hearted ! 
Though   in    their   souls,    which   thus    each   other 

thwarted, 
Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage 
Which  blighted  their  life's  bloom,  and  then  de- 
parted : 
Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  years  all  winters,  —  war  within  themselves  to  wage. 

xcv. 
Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft  his  way. 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his  stand : 
For  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play, 
And  fling  their  thunder-bolts  from  hand  to  hand. 
Flashing  and  cast  around  :  of  all  the  band. 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hill^  hath  fork'd 
His  lightnings,  — as  if  he  did  understand. 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  work'd, 
There  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein 
lurk'd. 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  I17 

XCVI. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings!  ye! 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ;  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless,  —  if  I  rest.** 
But  where  of  ye,  oh  tempests  !  is  the  goal  ? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast  ? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest? 

XCVII. 

Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 
That  which  is  most  within  me,  —  could  I  wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,   heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,   strong   or 

weak, 
All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek, 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe  —  into  one  word. 
And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would  speak  ; 
But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard. 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword. 

XCVIII. 

The  morn  is  up  again,  the  dewy  morn. 
With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom. 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scorn. 
And  living  as  if  earth  containM  no  tomb,  — 
And  glowing  into  day :  we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence  :  and  thus  \, 
Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Leman  !  may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  ponder'd  fittingly 


II 8  CHILD E  HAROLD'S        [canto  hi. 

XCIX. 

Clarens  !  sweet  Clarens,*'  birthplace  of  deep  love, 
Thine  air  is  the  young  breath  of  passionate  thought. 
Thy  trees  take  root  in  Love  ;  the  snows  above 
The  very  Glaciers  have  his  colors  caught, 
And  sunset  into  rose-hues  sees  them  wrought 
By  rays  which  sleep  there  lovingly :  the  rocks, 
The  permanent  crags,  tell  here  of  Love,  who  souglit 
In  them  a  refuge  from  the  worldly  shocks, 

Which  stir  and  sting  the  soul  with  hope  that  woos, 
then  mocks. 

c. 
Clarens !  by  heavenly  feet  thy  paths  are  trod,  — 
Undying  Love's,  who  here  ascends  a  throne 
To  which  the  steps  are  mountains ;  where  the  god 
Is  a  pervading  life  and  light,  —  so  shown 
Not  on  those  summits  solely,  nor  alone 
In  the  still  cave  and  forest ;  o'er  the  flower 
His  eye  is  sparkling,  and  his  breath  hath  blown, 
His  soft  and  summer  breath,  whose  tender  power 

Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most  desolate 
hour.*' 

CI. 
All  things  are  here  oi him;  from  the  black  pines. 
Which  are  his  shade  on  high,  and  the  loud  roar 
Of  torrents,  where  he  listeneth,  to  the  vines 
Which  slope  his  green  path  downward  to  the  shore. 
Where  the  bow'd  waters  meet  him,  and  adore. 
Kissing  his  feet  with  murmurs ;  and  the  wood. 
The  covert  of  old  trees,  with  trunks  all  hoar, 
But  light  leaves,  young  as  joy,  stands  where  it  stood, 

Offering  to  him,  and  his,  a  populous  solitude. 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  119 

CII. 

A  populous  solitude  of  bees  and  birds, 
And  fairy-formed  and  many-color'd  things, 
Who  worship  him  with  notes  more  sweet  than  words. 
And  innocently  open  their  glad  wings, 
Fearless  and  full  of  life :  the  gush  of  springs. 
And  fall  of  lofty  fountains,  and  the  bend 
Of  stirring  branches,  and  the  bud  which  brings 
The  swiftest  thought  of  beauty,  here  extend. 
Mingling,  and  made  by  Love,  unto  one  mighty  end. 

cm. 
He  who  hath  loved  not,  here  would  learn  that  lore. 
And  make  his  heart  a  spirit ;  he  who  knows 
That  tender  mystery,  will  love  the  more, 
For  this  is  Love's  recess,  where  vain  men's  woes, 
And  the  world's  waste,  have  driven  him  far  from  those. 
For  'tis  his  nature  to  advance  or  die ; 
He  stands  not  still,  but  or  decays,  or  grows 
Into  a  boundless  blessing,  which  may  vie 
With  the  immortal  lights,  in  its  eternity! 

CIV. 

'Twas  not  for  fiction  chose  Rousseau  this  spot, 
Peopling  it  with  affections  ;  but  he  found 
It  was  the  scene  which  passion  must  allot 
To  the  mind's  purified  beings  ;  'twas  the  ground 
Where  early  Love  his  Psyche's  zone  unbound. 
And  hallow'd  it  with  loveliness :  'tis  lone, 
And  wonderful,  and  deep,  and  hath  a  sound, 
And  sense,  and  sight  of  sweetness  ;  here  the  Rhone 
Hath  spread  himself  a  couch,  the  Alps  have  rear'd  a 
throne. 


120  CHILD E  HAROLD'S        [canto  hi. 

CV. 
Lausanne  !  and  Ferney !  ye  have  been  the  abodes 
Of  names  which  unto  you  bequeath'd  a  name  ;  ** 
Mortals,  who  sought  and  found,  by  dangerous  roads 
A  path  to  perpetuity  of  fame  : 
They  were  gigantic  minds,  and  their  steep  aim 
Was,  Titan-like,  on  daring  doubts  to  pile 
Thoughts  which  should  call  down  thunder,  and  the 

flame 
Of  Heaven,  again  assail'd,  if  Heaven  the  while 

On  man  and  man's  research  could  deign  do  more 
than  smile. 

cvi. 
The  one  was  fire  and  fickleness,  a  child, 
Most  mutable  in  wishes,  but  in  mind, 
A  wit  as  various,  —  gay,  grave,  sage,  or  wild, — 
Historian,  bard,  philosopher,  combined  ; 
He  multiplied  himself  among  mankind. 
The  Proteus  of  their  talents  :  But  his  own 
Breathed  most  in  ridicule,  —  which,  as  the  wind, 
Blew  where  it  listed,  laying  all  things  prone,  — 

Now  to  overthrow  a  fool,  and  now  to  shake  a  throne 

CVII. 

The  other,  deep  and  slow,  exhausting  thought. 
And  hiving  wisdom  with  each  studious  year. 
In  meditation  dwelt,  with  learning  wrought, 
And  shaped  his  weapon  with  an  edge  severe. 
Sapping  a  solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer ; 
The  lord  of  irony,  — that  master-spell, 
Which  stung  his  foes  to  wrath,  which  grew  from 
fear, 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  I2I 

And  doom''d  him  to  the  zealot's  ready  Hell, 
Which  answers  to  all  doubts  so  eloquently  well. 

CVIII. 

Yet,  peace  be  with  their  ashes,  —  for  by  them, 
If  merited,  the  penalty  is  paid  ; 
It  is  not  ours  to  judge,  —  far  less  condemn ; 
The  hour  must  come  when  such  things  shall  be  made 
Known  unto  all,  — or  hope  and  dread  allay'd 
By  slumber,  on  one  pillow,  —  in  the  dust. 
Which,  thus  much  we  are  sure,  must  lie  decay'd ; 
And  when  it  shall  revive,  as  is  our  trust, 
'Twill  be  to  be  forgiven,  or  suffer  what  is  just. 

CIX. 

But  let  me  quit  man's  works,  again  to  read 
His  Maker's,  spread  around  me,  and  suspend 
This  page,  which  from  my  reveries  I  feed, 
Until  it  seems  prolonging  without  end. 
The  clouds  above  me  to  the  white  Alps  tend, 
And  I  must  pierce  them,  and  survey  whate'er 
May  be  permitted,  as  my  steps  I  bend 
To  their  most  great  and  growing  region,  where 
The  earth  to  her  embrace  compels  the  powers  of 
air. 

ex. 

Italia!  too,  Italia!  looking  on  thee. 

Full  flashes  on  the  soul  the  light  of  ages. 

Since  the  fierce  Carthaginian  almost  won  thee, 

To  the  last  halo  of  the  chiefs  and  sages 

Who  glorify  thy  consecrated  pages  ; 

Thou  wert  the  throne  and  grave  of  empires  ;  still, 


122  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  in. 

The  fount  at  which  the  panting  mind  assuages 
Her  thirst  of  knowledge,  quaffing  there  her  fill, 
Flows  from  the  eternal  source  of  Rome's  imperial  hill« 

CXI. 

Thus  far  have  I  proceeded  in  a  theme 
Renew'd  with  no  kind  auspices  :  —  to  feel 
We  are  not  what  we  have  been,  and  to  deem 
We  are  not  what  we  should  be,  —  and  to  steel 
The  heart  against  itself:  and  to  conceal, 
With  a  proud  caution,  love,  or  hate,  or  aught,  — 
Passion  or  feeling,  purpose,  grief,  or  zeal,  — 
Which  is  the  tyrant  spirit  of  our  thought, 
Is  a  stern  task  of  soul :  —  No  matter,  —  it  is  taught 

CXII. 

And  for  these  words,  thus  woven  into  song. 
It  may  be  that  they  are  a  harmless  wile,  — 
The  coloring  of  the  scenes  which  fleet  along. 
Which  I  would  seize,  in  passing,  to  beguile 
My  breast,  or  that  of  others,  for  a  while. 
Fame  is  the  thirst  of  youth,  —  but  I  am  not 
So  young  as  to  regard  men's  frown  or  smile. 
As  loss  or  guerdon  of  a  glorious  lot ; 
I  stood  and  stand  alone,  —  remember'd  or  forgot. 

CXIII. 

I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me ; 

I  have  not  flatter'd  its  rank  breath,  nor  bow'd 

To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee,  — 

Nor  coin'd  my  cheek  to  smiles,  —  nor  cried  aloud 

In  worship  of  an  echo  ;  in  the  crowd 

They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such  ;  I  stood 


CANTO  III.]  PILGRIMAGE.  123 

Among  them,  but  not  of  them  ;  in  a  shroud 
Of  thoughts  which  were  not  their  thoughts,  and 
still  could, 
Had  I  not  filed  ■**  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued. 

cxiv. 
I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me,  — 
But  let  us  part  fair  foes ;  I  do  believe. 
Though  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there  may  be 
Words  which  are  things,  —  hopes  which  will  not 

deceive, 
And  virtues  which  are  merciful,  nor  weave 
Snares  for  the  failing :  I  would  also  deem 
O'er  others'  griefs  that  some  sincerely  grieve  ;  *^ 
That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem,  — 
That  goodness  is  no  name,  and  happiness  no  dream, *8 

cxv. 

My  daughter !  with  thy  name  this  song  begun  — 
My  daughter !  with  thy  name  thus  much  shall  end— 
I  see  thee  not,  —  I  hear  thee  not,  —  but  none 
Can  be  so  wrapt  in  thee  ;  thou  art  the  friend 
To  whom  the  shadows  of  far  years  extend ; 
Albeit  my  brow  thou  never  should'st  behold. 
My  voice  shall  with  thy  future  visions  blend 
And  reach  into  thy  heart,  —  when  mine  is  cold,  — 
A  token  and  a  tone,  even  from  thy  father's  mould. 

CXVI. 

To  aid  thy  mind's  development,  —  to  watch 
Thy  dawn  of  little  joys,  —  to  sit  and  see 
Almost  thy  very  growth,  —  to  view  thee  catch 
Knowledge  of  objects,  —  wonders  yet  to  thee  ! 


124  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  hi. 

To  hold  thee  lightly  on  a  gentle  knee, 
And  print  on  thy  soft  cheek  a  parent's  kiss,  — 
This,  it  should  seem,  was  not  reserved  for  me ; 
Yet  this  was  in  my  nature :  —  as  it  is, 
I  know  not  what  is  there,  yet  something  like  to  this. 

CXVII. 

Yet,  though  dull  Hate  as  duty  should  be  taught, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me ;  though  my  name 
Should  be  shut  from  thee,  as  a  spell  still  fraught 
With  desolation,  —  and  a  broken  chain  : 
Though  the  grave  closed  between  us, — 'twere  the 

same, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me  ;  though  to  drain 
My  blood  from  out  thy  being  were  an  aim, 
And  an  attainment,  —  all  would  be  in  vain,  — 
Still  thou  would'st  love  me,  still  that  more  than  life 

retain. 

CXVIII. 

The  child  of  love,  —  though  born  in  bitterness 
And  nurtured  in  convulsion.     Of  thy  sire 
These  were  the  elements, — and  thine  no  less. 
As  yet  such  are  around  thee,  —  but  thy  fire 
Shall  be  more  temper'd,  and  thy  hope  far  higher. 
Sweet  be  thy  cradled  slumbers !     O'er  the  sea, 
And  from  the  mountains  where  I  now  respire. 
Fain  would  I  waft  such  blessing  upon  thee. 
As,  with  a  sigh,  I  deem  thou  might'st  have  been 
to  me! 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO    THE   FOURTH. 


Visto  ho  Toscana,  Lombardia,  Romagna, 
Quel  Monte  che  divide,  e  quel  che  serra 
Italia,  e  un  mare  e  1'  altro,  che  la  bagna- 

Ariosto,  Satira  iii. 


JOHN   HOBHOUSE,    ESQ.,   A.M.  F.R.S., 

ETC.,    ETC.,    ETC. 

My  DEAR  HOBHOUSE,  —  After  an  interval  of  eight 
years  between  the  composition  of  the  first  and  last 
cantos  of  Childe  Harold,  the  conclusion  of  the  poem 
is  about  to  be  submitted  to  the  public.  In  parting 
with  so  old  a  friend,  it  is  not  extraordinary  that  I 
should  recur  to  one  still  older  and  better,  —  to  one 
who  has  beheld  the  birth  and  death  of  the  other, 
and  to  whom  I  am  far  more  indebted  for  the  social 
advantages  of  an  enlightened  friendship,  than  — 
though  not  ungrateful  —  I  can,  or  could  be,  to  Childe 
Harold,  for  any  public  favor  reflected  through  the 
poem  on  the  poet,  —  to  one,  whom  I  have  known 
long,  and  accompanied  far,  whom  I  have  found  wake- 
ful over  my  sickness  and  kind  in  my  sorrow,  glad  in 
my  prosperity  and  firm  in  my  adversity,  true  in  coun- 
sel and  trusty  in  peril,  —  to  a  friend  often  tried  and 
never  found  wanting ;  —  to  yourself. 

In  so  doing,  I  recur  from  fiction  to  truth ;  and  in 
dedicating  to  you  in  its  complete,  or  at  least  con- 
cluded state,  a  poetical  work  which  is  the  longest, 
the  most  thoughtful  and  comprehensive  of  my  com- 
positions, I  wish  to  do  honor  to  myself  by  the  record 
of  many  years'  intimacy  with  a  man  of  learning,  of 
talent,  of  steadiness,  and  of  honor.  It  is  not  for 
127 


128  DEDICA  TION. 

minds  like  ours  to  give  or  to  receive  flattery ;  yet  the 
praises  of  sincerity  have  ever  been  permitted  to  the 
voice  of  friendship ;  and  it  is  not  for  you,  nor  even 
for  others,  but  to  relieve  a  heart  which  has  not  else- 
where, or  lately,  been  so  much  accustomed  to  the 
encounter  of  good-will  as  to  withstand  the  shock 
firmly,  that  I  thus  attempt  to  commemorate  your 
good  qualities,  or  rather  the  advantages  which  I 
have  derived  from  their  exertion.  Even  the  recur- 
rence of  the  date  of  this  letter,  the  anniversary  of 
the  most  unfortunate  day  of  my  past  existence,  but 
which  cannot  poison  my  future  while  I  retain  the  re- 
source of  your  friendship  and  of  my  own  faculties, 
will  henceforth  have  a  more  agreeable  recollection 
for  both,  inasmuch  as  it  will  remind  us  of  this  my 
attempt  to  thank  you  for  an  indefatigable  regard, 
such  as  few  men  have  experienced,  and  no  one  could 
experience  without  thinking  better  of  his  species  and 
of  himself. 

It  has  been  our  fortune  to  traverse  together,  at 
various  periods,  the  countries  of  chivalry,  history, 
and  fable  —  Spain,  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  and  Italy; 
and  what  Athens  and  Constantinople  were  to  us  a 
few  years  ago,  Venice  and  Rome  have  been  more 
recently.  The  poem  also,  or  the  pilgrim,  or  both, 
have  accompanied  me  from  first  to  last ;  and  perhaps 
it  may  be  a  pardonable  vanity  which  induces  me  to 
reflect  with  complacency  on  a  composition  which  in 
some  degree  connects  me  with  the  spot  where  it  was 
produced,  and  the  objects  it  would  fain  describe  ;  and 
however  unworthy  it  may  be  deemed  of  those  magi- 
cal and  memorable  abodes,  however  short  it  may  fall 


dedication:  129 

of  our  distant  conceptions  and  immediate  impres- 
sions, yet  as  a  mark  of  respect  for  what  is  venerable, 
and  of  feeling  for  what  is  glorious,  it  has  been  to  me 
a  source  of  pleasure  in  the  production,  and  I  part 
with  it  with  a  kind  of  regret,  which  I  hardly  sus- 
pected that  events  could  have  left  me  for  imaginary 
objects. 

With  regard  to  the  conduct  of  the  last  canto,  there 
will  be  found  less  of  the  pilgrim  than  in  any  of  the 
preceding,  and  that  little  slightly,  if  at  all,  separated 
from  the  author  speaking  in  his  own  person.  The 
fact  is,  that  I  had  become  weary  of  drawing  a  line 
which  every  one  seemed  determined  not  to  perceive : 
like  the  Chinese  in  Goldsmith's  "  Citizen  of  the 
World,"  whom  nobody  would  believe  to  be  a  Chinese, 
it  was  in  vain  that  I  asserted,  and  imagined  that  I 
had  drawn,  a  distinction  between  the  author  and  the 
pilgrim ;  and  the  very  anxiety  to  preserve  this  differ- 
ence, and  disappointment  at  finding  it  unavailing,  so 
far  crushed  my  efforts  in  the  composition,  that  I  de- 
termined to  abandon  it  altogether — and  have  done 
so.  The  opinions  which  have  been,  or  may  be,  formed 
on  that  subject,  are  now  a  matter  of  indifference  ;  the 
work  is  to  depend  on  itself,  and  not  on  the  writer ; 
and  the  author,  who  has  no  resources  in  his  own 
mind  beyond  the  reputation,  transient  or  permanent, 
which  is  to  arise  from  his  literary  efforts,  deserves 
the  fate  of  authors. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  canto  it  was  my 
intention,  either  in  the  text  or  in  the  notes,  to  have 
touched  upon  the  ]:)resent  state  of  Italian  literature, 
and  perhaps  of  manners.     But  the  text,  within  the 


130  DEDICA  TION^. 

limits  I  proposed,  I  soon  found  hardly  sufficient  for 
the  labyrinth  of  external  objects,  and  the  consequent 
reflections  ;  and  for  the  whole  of  the  notes,  except- 
ing a  few  of  the  shortest,  I  am  indebted  to  yourself, 
and  these  were  necessarily  limited  to  the  elucidation 
of  the  text. 

It  is  also  a  delicate,  and  no  very  grateful  task,  to 
dissert  upon  the  literature  and  manners  of  a  nation 
so  dissimilar;  and  requires  an  attention  and  im- 
partiality which  would  induce  us  —  though  perhaps 
no  inattentive  observers,  nor  ignorant  of  the  lan- 
guage or  customs  of  the  people  amongst  whom  we 
have  recently  abode  —  to  distrust,  or  at  least  defer 
our  judgment,  and  more  narrowly  examine  our  in- 
formation. The  state  of  literary,  as  well  as  political 
party,  appears  to  run,  or  to  have  run,  so  high,  that 
for  a  stranger  to  steer  impartially  between  them  is 
next  to  impossible.  It  may  be  enough,  then,  at  least 
for  my  purpose,  to  quote  from  their  own  beautiful 
language  —  "Mi  pare  che  in  un  paese  tutto  poetico, 
che  vante  la  lingua  la  piii  nobile  ed  insieme  la  piii 
dolce,  tutte  tutte  le  vie  diverse  si  possono  tentare,  e 
che  sinche  la  patria  di  Alfieri  e  di  Monti  non  ha  per- 
duto  Tantico  valore,  in  tutte  essa  dovrebbe  essere  la 
prima."  Italy  has  great  names  still  —  Canova,  Monti, 
Ugo  Foscolo,  Pindemonte,  Visconti,  Morelli,  Cico- 
gnara,  Albrizzi,  Mezzophanti,  l^ai,  Mustoxidi,  Agli- 
etti,  and  Vacca,  will  secure  to  the  present  genera- 
tion an  honorable  place  in  most  of  the  departments 
of  Art,  Science,  and  Belles  Lettres  ;  and  in  some  the 
very  highest  —  Europe  —  the  World  —  has  but  one 
Canova. 


DEDICATION.  131 

It  has  been  somewhere  said  by  Alfieri,  that  "  La 
pianta  uomo  nasce  piCi  robusta  in  Italia  che  in  qua- 
lunque  altra  terra  —  e  che  gli  stessi  atroci  delitti  che 
vi  si  commettono  ne  sono  una  prova."  Without  sub- 
scribing to  the  latter  part  of  his  proposition,  a  dan- 
gerous doctrine,  the  truth  of  which  may  be  disputed 
on  better  grounds ;  namely,  that  the  Italians  are  in 
no  respect  more  ferocious  than  their  neighbors,  that 
man  must  be  wilfully  blind,  or  ignorantly  heedless, 
who  is  not  struck  with  the  extraordinary  capacity  of 
this  people,  or,  if  such  a  word  be  admissible,  their 
capabilities,  the  facility  of  their  acquisitions,  the  ra- 
pidity of  their  conceptions,  the  fire  of  their  genius, 
their  sense  of  beauty,  and,  amidst  all  the  disad- 
vantages of  repeated  revolutions,  the  desolation  of 
battles,  and  the  despair  of  ages,  their  still  unquenched 
"  longing  after  immortality,"  —  the  immortality  of 
independence.  And  when  we  ourselves,  in  riding 
round  the  walls  of  Rome,  heard  the  simple  lament 
of  the  laborers'  chorus,  "Roma!  Roma!  Roma! 
Roma  non  6  piu  come  era  prima,"  it  was  difficult  not 
to  contrast  this  melancholy  dirge  with  the  bacchanal 
roar  of  the  songs  of  exultation  still  yelled  from  the 
London  taverns,  over  the  carnage  of  Mont  St.  Jean, 
and  the  betrayal  of  Genoa,  of  Italy,  of  France,  and 
of  the  world,  by  men  whose  conduct  you  yourself 
have  exposed  in  a  work  worthy  of  the  better  days  o\ 
our  history.     For  me,  — 

"Non  movero  mai  corda 
Ove  la  turba  di  sue  ciance  assorda." 

What  Italy  has  gained  by  the  late  transfer  of  na- 
tions, it  were  useless  for  Englishmen  to  enquire,  till 


X32  DEDICATIOJSr. 

it  becomes  ascertained  that  England  has  acquired 
something  more  than  a  permanent  army  and  a  sus- 
pended Habeas  Corpus ;  it  is  enough  for  them  to 
look  at  home.  For  what  they  have  done  abroad, 
and  especially  in  the  South,  "Verily  they  will  have 
their  reward,"  and  at  no  very  distant  period. 

Wishing  you,  my  dear  Hobhouse,  a  safe  and  agree- 
able return  to  that  country  whose  real  welfare  can  be 
dearer  to  none  than  to  yourself,  I  dedicate  to  you  this 
poem  in  its  completed  state ;  and  repeat  once  more 
how  truly  I  am  ever, 

Your  obliged 

And  affectionate  friend, 

BYRON. 

Vknicb,  January  2,  1818. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S 
PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO  THE  FOURTH. 


I  STOOD  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand : 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand : 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  Glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times,  when  many  a  subject  land 
Look'd  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 

Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred 
isles ! 

n. 
She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean,* 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers : 
And  such  she  was  ; — her  daughters  had  their  dowers 
From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  East 
Pour'd  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers. 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 

Monarchs  partook,  and  deem'd  their  dignity  increased. 
133 


t$4  CfllLDE  HAkOLD  *S        [canto  iV. 

III. 
In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more. 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier ; 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore, 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear : 
Those  days  are  gone  —  but  Beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade  —  but  Nature  doth  not  die. 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear. 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy ! 

IV. 

But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 
Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 
Above  the  dogeless  city's  vanish'd  sway ; 
Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto ;  Shylock  and  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,  can  not  be  swept  or  worn  away  — 
The  keystones  of  the  arch !  though  all  were  o'er. 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 

V. 

The  beings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay ; 

Essentially  immortal,  they  create 
And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 
And  more  beloved  existence :  that  which  Fate 
Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  this  our  state 
Of  mortal  bondage,  by  these  spirits  supplied 
First  exiles,  then  replaces  what  we  hate ; 
Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flowers  have  died, 
And  with  a  fresher  growth  replenishing  the  void. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  135 

VI. 

Such  is  the  refuge  of  our  youth  and  age, 
The  first  from  Hope,  the  last  from  Vacancy ; 
And  this  worn  feeling  peoples  many  a  page. 
And,  may  be,  that  which  grows  beneath  mine  eye. 
Yet  there  are  things  whose  strong  reality 
Outshines  our  fairy-land  ;  in  shape  and  hues 
More  beautiful  than  our  fantastic  sky, 
And  the  strange  constellations  which  the  Muse 
O'er  her  wild  universe  is  skilful  to  diffuse : 

VII. 

I  saw  or  dream'd  of  such,  —  but  let  them  go, — 
They  came  like  truth,  and  disappear'd  like  dreams  ; 
And  whatsoe'er  they  were  —  are  now  but  so  : 
I  could  replace  them  if  I  would ;  still  teems 
My  mind  with  many  a  form  which  aptly  seems 
Such  as  I  sought  for,  and  at  moments  found ; 
Let  these  too  go  —  for  waking  Reason  deems 
Such  over-weening  phantasies  unsound. 
And  other  voices  speak,  and  other  sights  surround. 

VIII. 

I've  taught  me  other  tongues  —  and  in  strange  eyes 
Have  made  me  not  a  stranger ;  to  the  mind 
Which  is  itself,  no  changes  bring  surprise  ; 
Nor  is  it  harsh  to  make,  nor  hard  to  find 
A  country  with  —  ay,  or  without  mankind  ; 
Yet  was  I  born  where  men  are  proud  to  be. 
Not  without  cause ;  and  should  I  leave  behind 
The  inviolate  island  of  tlie  sage  and  free. 
And  seek  me  out  a  home  by  a  remoter  sea. 


136  CHILDE  HAROLD'S        [canto  iv 

IX. 

Perhaps  I  loved  it  well :  and  should  I  lay 
My  ashes  in  a  soil  which  is  not  mine, 
My  spirit  shall  resume  it  —  if  we  may 
Unbodied  choose  a  sanctuary.     I  twine 
My  hopes  of  being  remember'd  in  my  line 
With  my  land's  language  :  if  too  fond  and  far 
These  aspirations  in  their  scope  incline,  — 
If  my  fame  should  be,  as  my  fortunes  are. 
Of  hasty  growth  and  blight,  and  dull  Oblivion  bar 

X. 

My  name  from  out  the  temple  where  the  dead 
Are  honored  by  the  nations  —  let  it  be  — 
And  light  the  laurels  on  a  loftier  head ! 
And  be  the  Spartan's  epitaph  on  me  — 
"  Sparta  hath  many  a  worthier  son  than  he."^ 
Meantime  I  seek  no  sympathies,  nor  need ; 
The  thorns  which  I  have  reap'd  are  of  the  tree 
I  planted,  —  they  have  torn  me,  —  and  I  bleed  : 
I  should  have  known  what  fruit  would  spring  from 
such  a  seed. 

XI. 

The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord ; 
And.  annual  marriage  now  no  more  renew'd, 
The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored. 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood  ! 
St.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood 
Stand,  but  in  mockery  of  his  withered  power. 
Over  the  proud  Place  where  an  Emperor  sued. 
And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 
When  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequall'd  dower. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  137 

XII. 

The  Suabian  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reigns — ■ 
An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Emperor  knelt ; 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptred  cities  ;  nations  melt 
From  power's  high  pinnacle,  when  they  have  felt 
The  sunshine  for  a  while,  and  downward  go 
Like  lauwine  loosen'd  from  the  mountain's  belt ; 
Oh  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo ! 
The  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering  foe. 

XIII. 

Before  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  brass, 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun  ; 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass  ? 
Are  they  not  bridled?  —  Venice,  lost  and  won, 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done. 
Sinks,  like  a  sea-weed,  into  whence  she  rose  ! 
Better  be  whelm'd  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun, 
Even  in  destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes. 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose. 

XIV. 

In  youth  she  was  all  glory,  —  a  new  Tyre,  — 
Her  very  by-word  sprung  from  victory. 
The  "  Planter  of  the  Lion,"'  which  through  fire 
And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and  sea ; 
Though  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free. 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  the  Ottomite ; 
Witness  Troy's  rival,  Candia  !     Vouch  it,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  fight ! 
For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can  blight. 


138  CHILD E  HAROLD'S        [canto  iv. 

XV. 

Statues  of  glass  —  all  shiver'd  —  the  long  file 
Of  her  dead  Doges  are  declined  to  dust ; 
But  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptuous  pile 
Bespeaks  the  pageant  of  their  splendid  trust ; 
Their  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  in  rust, 
Have  yielded  to  the  stranger :  empty  halls. 
Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthrals. 
Have  flung  a  desolate  cloud  o'er  Venice'  lovely  walls. 

XVI. 

When  Athens'  armies  fell  at  Syracuse, 
And  fetter'd  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of  war. 
Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse,* 
Her  voice  their  only  ransom  from  afar : 
See !  as  they  chant  the  tragic  hymn,  the  car 
Of  the  o'ermaster'd  victor  stops,  the  reins 
Fall  from  his  hands  —  his  idle  scimitar 
Starts  from  its  belt  —  he  rends  his  captive's  chains. 
And  bids  him  thank  the  bard  for  freedom  and  his 
strains. 

XVII. 

Thus,  Venice,  if  no  stronger  claim  were  thine. 
Were  all  thy  proud  historic  deeds  forgot, 
Thy  choral  memory  of  the  Bard  divine. 
Thy  love  of  Tasso,  should  have  cut  the  knot 
Which  ties  thee  to  thy  tyrants  ;  and  thy  lot 
Is  shameful  to  the  nations,  —  most  of  all, 
Albion  !  to  thee  :  the  Ocean  queen  should  not 
Abandon  Ocean's  children ;  in  the  fall 
Of  Venice  think  of  thine,  despite  thy  watery  wall. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  139 

XVIII. 
I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood  —  she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth  the  mart ; 
And  Otway,  Radcliffe,  Schiller,  Shakspeare's  art,^ 
Had  stamped  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so, 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part. 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe. 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show. 

XIX. 

I  can  repeople  with  the  past  —  and  of 
The  present  there  is  still  for  eye  and  thought. 
And  meditation  chasten'd  down,  enough  ; 
And  more,  it  may  be,  than  I  hoped  or  sought ; 
And  of  the  happiest  moments  which  were  wrought 
Within  the  web  of  my  existence,  some 
From  thee,  fair  Venice  !  have  their  colors  caught : 
There  are  some  feelings  Time  can  not  benumb, 
Nor  Torture  shake,  or  mine  would  now  be  cold  and 
dumb. 

XX. 

But  from  their  nature  will  the  tannen  grow  * 
Loftiest  on  loftiest  and  least  sheltered  rocks, 
Rooted  in  barrenness,  where  naught  below 
Of  soil  supports  them  'gainst  the  Alpine  shocks 
Of  eddying  storms  ;  yet  springs  the  trunk,  and  mocks 
The  howling  tempest,  till  its  height  and  frame 
Are  worthy  of  the  mountains  from  whose  blocks 
Of  bleak,  gray  granite,  into  life  it  came. 
And  grew  a  giant  tree  ; — the  mind  may  grow  the  same. 


I40  CHILDE  HAROLD'S        [canto  it 

XXI. 

Existence  may  be  borne,  and  the  deep  root 
Of  life  and  sufferance  make  its  firm  abode 
In  bare  and  desolated  bosoms  :  mute 
The  camel  labors  with  the  heaviest  load, 
And  the  wolf  dies  in  silence,  —  not  bestow'd 
In  vain  should  such  example  be ;  if  they, 
Things  of  ignoble  or  of  savage  mood. 
Endure  and  shrink  not,  we  of  nobler  clay 
May  temper  it  to  bear,  —  it  is  but  for  a  day. 

XXII. 

All  suffering  doth  destroy,  or  is  destroyed. 
Even  by  the  sufferer ;  and,  in  each  event. 
Ends  : — Some,  with  hope  replenished  and  rebuoy''d. 
Return  to  whence  they  came  —  with  like  intent, 
And  weave  their  web  again ;  some,  bow'd  and  bent, 
Wax  gray  and  ghastly,  withering  ere  their  time, 
And  perish  with  the  reed  on  which  they  leant ; 
Some  seek  devotion,  toil,  war,  good  or  crime. 
According  as  their  souls  were  form'd  to  sink  or  climb. 

XXIII. 

But  ever  and  anon  of  griefs  subdued 
There  comes  a  token  like  a  scorpion's  sting, 
Scarce  seen,  but  with  fresh  bitterness  imbued ; 
And  slight  withal  may  be  the  things  which  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 
Aside  for  ever :  it  may  be  a  sound  — 
A  tone  of  music  —  summer's  eve  —  or  spring  — 
A  flower — the  wind — the  ocean — which  shall  wound, 
Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly 
bound ; 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  141 

XXIV. 

And  how  and  why  we  know  not,  nor  can  trace 

Home  to  its  cloud  this  lightning  of  the  mind, 

But  feel  the  shock  renew'd,  nor  can  efface 

The  blight  and  blackening  which  it  leaves  behind. 

Which  out  of  things  familiar,  undesign'd, 

When  least  we  deem  of  such,  calls  up  to  view 

The  spectres  whom  no  exorcism  can  bind, 

The  cold  —  the  changed  —  perchance  the  dead  — 

anew. 
The  mourn'd,  the  loved,  the  lost  —  too  many !  —  yet 

how  few ! 

XXV. 

But  my  soul  wanders ;  I  demand  it  back 
To  meditate  amongst  decay,  and  stand 
A  ruin  amidst  ruins  ;  there  to  track 
Fall'n  states  and  buried  greatness,  o'er  a  land 
Which  was  the  mightiest  in  its  old  command, 
And  is  the  loveliest,  and  must  ever  be 
The  master-mould  of  Nature's  heavenly  hand, 
Wherein  were  cast  the  heroic  and  the  free. 
The  beautiful,  the  brave  —  the  lords  of  earth  and  sea. 

XXVI. 

The  commonwealth  of  kings,  the  men  of  Rome ! 
And  even  since,  and  now,  fair  Italy ! 
Thou  art  the  garden  of  the  world,  the  home 
Of  all  Art  yields,  and  Nature  "^  can  decree; 
Even  in  thy  desert,  what  is  like  to  thee? 
Thy  very  weeds  are  beautiful,  thy  waste 
More  rich  than  other  climes'  fertility ; 
Thy  wreck  a  glory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 
With  an  immaculate  charm  which  can  not  be  defaced. 


142  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto,  iv. 

XXVII. 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night  — 
Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her  —  a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 
Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains ;  Heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colors  seems  to  be 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  West, 
Where  the  Day  joins  the  past  Eternity  ; 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest 
Floats   through   the   azure  air  —  an   island   of   the 
blest !  8 

XXVIII. 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven ;  but  still 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains  j 

Roll'd  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhaetian  hill. 
As  day  and  night  contending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaimed  her  order :  —  gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-born  rose, 
Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glass'd  within 
it  glows, 

XXIX. 

Fill'd  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters ;  all  its  hues. 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star. 
Their  magical  variety  diffuse  : 
And  now  they  change  ;  a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains  ;  parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a  new  color  as  it  gasps  away, 
The  last  still  loveliest,  till — 'tis  gone — and  all  is  gray. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  143 

XXX. 

There  is  a  tomb  in  Arqua ;  —  rear'd  in  air, 
Pillar'd  in  their  sarcophagus,  repose 
The  bones  of  Laura's  lover :  here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes. 
The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.     He  arose 
To  raise  a  language,  and  his  land  reclaim 
From  the  dull  yoke  of  her  barbaric  foes : 
Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to  fame. 

XXXI. 

They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died  ; 
The  mountain-village  where  his  latter  days 
Went  down  the  vale  of  years  ;  and  'tis  their  pride— 
An  honest  pride  —  and  let  it  be  their  praise. 
To  offer  to  the  passing  stranger's  gaze 
His  mansion  and  his  sepulchre ;  both  plain 
And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 
A  feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
Than  if  a  pyramid  form'd  his  monumental  fane. 

XXXII, 

And  the  soft  quiet  hamlet  where  he  dwelt  ^ 
Is  one  of  that  complexion  which  seems  made 
For  those  who  their  mortality  have  felt. 
And  sought  a  refuge  from  their  hopes  decay'd 
In  the  deep  umbrage  of  a  green  hill's  shade. 
Which  shows  a  distant  prospect  far  away 
Of  busy  cities,  now  in  vain  display'd. 
For  they  can  lure  no  further ;  and  the  ray 
Of  a  bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday. 


144  CHILD E  HAROLD'S        [canto  iv. 

XXXIII. 

Developing  the  mountains,  leaves,  and  flowers. 
And  shining  in  the  brawling  brook,  where-by, 
Clear  as  its  current,  glide  the  sauntering  hours 
With  a  calm  languor,  which,  though  to  the  eye 
Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  morality. 
If  from  society  we  learn  to  live, 
'Tis  solitude  should  teach  us  how  to  die ; 
It  hath  no  flatterers  ;  vanity  can  give 
No  hollow  aid  ;  alone — man  with  his  God  must  strive : 

xxxrv. 

Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons,  who  impair^*' 
The  strength  of  better  thoughts,  and  seek  their  prey 
In  melancholy  bosoms,  such  as  were 
Of  moody  texture  from  their  earliest  day. 
And  loved  to  dwell  in  darkness  and  dismay, 
Deeming  themselves  predestined  to  a  doom 
Which  is  not  of  the  pangs  that  pass  away ; 
Making  the  sun  like  blood,  the  earth  a  tomb. 
The  tomb  a  hell,  and  hell  itself  a  murkier  gloom. 

XXXV. 

Ferrara ! "  in  thy  wide  and  grass-grown  streets 
Whose  symmetry  was  not  for  solitude. 
There  seems  as  'twere  a  curse  upon  the  seats 
Of  former  sovereigns,  and  the  antique  brood 
Of  Este,  which  for  many  an  age  made  good 
Its  strength  within  thy  walls,  and  was  of  yore 
Patron  or  tyrant,  as  the  changing  mood 
Of  petty  power  impelled,  of  those  who  wore 
The  wreath  which  Dante's  brow  alone  had  worn  be- 
fore. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  I4S 

XXXVI. 

And  Tasso  is  their  glory  and  their  shame. 
Hark  to  his  strain  !  and  then  survey  his  cell ! 
And  see  how  dearly  earn'd  Torquato's  fame, 
And  where  Alfonso  bade  his  poet  dwell : 
The  miserable  despot  could  not  quell 
The  insulted  mind  he  sought  to  quench,  and  blend 
With  the  surrounding  maniacs,  in  the  hell 
Where  he  had  plunged  it.     Glory  without  end 
Scattered  the  clouds  away  —  and  on  that  name  attend 

XXX  VII. 

The  tears  and  praises  of  all  time  ;  while  thine 
Would  rot  in  its  oblivion  —  in  the  sink 
Of  worthless  dust,  which  from  thy  boasted  line 
Is  shaken  into  nothing ;  but  the  link 
Thou  formest  in  his  fortunes  bids  us  think 
Of  thy  poor  malice,  naming  thee  with  scorn  — 
Alfonso  !  how  thy  ducal  pageants  shrink 
From  thee  !  if  in  another  station  born. 
Scarce  fit  to  be  the  slave  of  him  thou  mad'st  to  mourn. 

XXXVIII. 

Thou!  form'd  to  eat,  and  be  despised,  and  die. 
Even  as  the  beasts  that  perish,  save  that  thou 
Hadst  a  more  splendid  trough  and  wider  sty : 
He !  with  a  glory  round  his  furrow'd  brow. 
Which  emanated  then,  and  dazzles  now, 
In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire. 
And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy  Could  allow 
No  strain  which   shamed    his  country's  creaking 
lyre. 
That  whetstone  of  the  teeth  — monotony  in  wire! 


146  CHILDE  HAROLD'S        [canto  iv. 

XXXIX. 

Peace  to  Torquato's  injured  shade  !  'twas  his 
In  life  and  death  to  be  the  mark  where  Wrong 
Aim'd  with  her  poison'd  arrows ;  but  to  miss. 
Oh,  victor  unsurpassed  in  modern  song! 
Each  year  brings  forth  its  millions  ;  but  how  long 
The  tide  of  generations  shall  roll  on. 
And  not  the  whole  combined  and  countless  throng 
Compose  a  mind  like  thine  ?  though  all  in  one 
Condensed  their  scattered  rays,  they  would  not  form 
a  sun. 

XL. 

Great  as  thou  art,  yet  parallel'd  by  those, 
Thy  countrymen,  before  thee  born  to  shine, 
The  Bards  of  Hell  and  Chivalry :  first  rose 
The  Tuscan  father's  comedy  divine  ; 
Then,  not  unequal  to  the  Florentine, 
The  southern  Scott, ^^  the  minstrel  who  call'd  forth 
A  new  creation  with  his  magic  line. 
And,  like  the  Ariosto  of  the  North, 
Sang  ladye-love   and   war,    romance    and    knightly 
worth. 

XLI. 

The  lightning  rent  from  Ariosto's  bust 
The  iron  crown  of  laurel's  mimic'd  leaves  ; 
Nor  was  the  ominous  element  unjust. 
For  the  true  laurel-wreath  which  Glory  weaves 
Is  of  the  tree  no  bolt  of  thunder  cleaves. 
And  the  false  semblance  but  disgraced  his  brow ; 
Yet  still,  if  fondly  Superstition  grieves. 
Know,  that  the  lightning  sanctifies  below 
Whate'er  it  strikes ; — yon  head  is  doubly  sacred  now. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  147 


Italia!  oh  Italia!  thou  who  hast 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A  funeral  dower  of  present  woes  and  past, 
On  thy  s^eet  brow  is  sorrow  ploughed  by  shame, 
And  annals  graved  in  characters  of  flame. 
Oh,  God  !  that  thou  wert  in  thy  nakedness 
Less  lovely  or  more  powerful,  and  couldst  claim 
Thy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back,  who  press 
To  shed  thy  blood,  and  drink  the  tears  of  thy  dis- 
tress ; 

XLIH. 

Then  might'st  thou  more  appal ;  or,  less  desired. 
Be  homely  and  be  peaceful,  undeplored 
For  thy  destructive  charms  ;  then,  still  untired. 
Would  not  be  seen  the  armed  torrents  pour'd 
Down  the  deep  Alps  ;  nor  would  the  hostile  horde 
Of  many-nation'd  spoilers  from  the  Po 
Quaff  blood  and  water ;  nor  the  stranger's  sword 
Be  thy  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so, 
Victor  or  vanquished,  thou  the  slave  of  friend  or  foe. 


Wandering  in  youth,  I  traced  the  path  of  him,i' 
The  Roman  friend  of  Rome's  least-mortal  mind, 
The  friend  of  Tully :  as  my  bark  did  skim 
The  bright  blue  waters  with  a  fanning  wind. 
Came  Megara  before  me,  and  behind 
^gina  lay,  Piraeus  on  the  right. 
And  Corinth  on  the  left ;  I  lay  reclined 
Along  the  prow,  and  saw  all  these  unite 
In  ruin,  even  as  he  had  .seen  the  desolate  sight ; 


14^  CHILD E  HAROLD'S        [canto  iv. 


For  Time  hath  not  rebuilt  them,  but  uprear'd 
Barbaric  dwellings  on  their  shattered  site, 
Which  only  make  more  mourn'd  and  more  endear'd 
The  few  last  rays  of  their  far-scatter'd  light, 
And  the  crush'd  relics  of  their  vanished  might. 
The  Roman  saw  these  tombs  in  his  own  age, 
These  sepulchres  of  cities,  which  excite 
Sad  wonder,  and  his  yet  surviving  page 
The  moral  lesson  bears,  drawn  from  such  pilgrimage. 

XL  VI. 

That  page  is  now  before  me,  and  on  mine 
His  country's  ruin  added  to  the  mass 
Of  perish'd  states  he  mourn'd  in  their  decline. 
And  I  in  desolation :  all  that  was 
Of  then  destruction  is;  and  now,  alas! 
Rome  —  Rome  imperial,  bows  her  to  the  storm. 
In  the  same  dust  and  blackness,  and  we  pass 
The  skeleton  of  her  Titanic  form,^* 
Wrecks  of  another  world,  whose  ashes  still  are  warm. 

XLVII. 

Yet,  Italy  !  through  every  other  land 
Thy  wrongs  should  ring,  and  shall,  from  side  to  side ; 
Mother  of  Arts  !  as  once  of  arms  ;  thy  hand 
Was  then  our  guardian,  and  is  still  our  guide ; 
Parent  of  our  Religion  !  whom  the  wide 
Nations  have  knelt  to  for  the  keys  of  heaven  ! 
Europe,  repentant  of  her  parricide. 
Shall  yet  redeem  thee,  and,  all  backward  driven. 
Roll  the  barbarian  tide,  and  sue  to  be  forgiven. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  149 

XLVIII. 

But  Arno  wins  us  to  the  fair  white  walls, 
Where  the  Etrurian  Athens  claims  and  keeps 
A  softer  feeling  for  her  fairy  halls. 
Girt  by  her  theatre  of  hills,  she  reaps 
Her  corn  and  wine  and  oil,  and  Plenty  leaps 
To  laughing  life,  with  her  redundant  horn. 
Along  the  banks  where  smiling  Arno  sweeps 
Was  modern  Luxury  of  Commerce  born, 
And  buried  Learning  rose,  redeemed  to  a  new  morn. 

XLIX. 

There,  too,  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone,  and  fills 
The  air  around  with  beauty ;  we  inhale 
The  ambrosial  aspect,  which,  beheld,  instils 
Part  of  its  immortality ;  the  veil 
Of  heaven  is  half  undrawn ;  within  the  pale 
We  stand,  and  in  that  form  and  face  behold 
What  mind  can  make,  when  Nature's  self  would  fail ; 
And  to  the  fond  idolaters  of  old 
Envy  the  innate  flash  which  such  a  soul  could  mould : 

L. 

We  gaze  and  turn  away,  and  know  not  where. 
Dazzled  and  drunk  with  beauty,  till  the  heart  '* 
Reels  with  its  fulness  ;  there  —  for  ever  there  — 
Chain'd  to  the  chariot  of  triumphal  Art, 
We  stand  as  captives,  and  would  not  depart. 
Away!  —  there  need  no  words,  nor  terms  precise, 
The  paltry  jargon  of  the  marble  mart, 
Where  Pedantry  gulls  Folly  —  we  have  eyes: 
Blood  —  pulse  —  and    breast,    confirm    the    Dardan 
Shepherd's  prize. 


ISO  CHILD E  HAROLD'S       [canto  iv. 

LI. 
Appear'dst  thou  not  to  Paris  in  this  guise? 
Or  to  more  deeply  blest  Anchises  ?  or. 
In  all  thy  perfect  goddess-ship,  when  lies 
Before  thee  thy  own  vanquish'd  Lord  of  War? 
And  gazing  in  thy  face  as  toward  a  star. 
Laid  on  thy  lap,  his  eyes  to  thee  upturn. 
Feeding  on  thy  sweet  cheek !  while  thy  lips  are 
With  lava  kisses  melting  while  they  burn, 
Shower'd  on  his  eyelids,  brow,  and  mouth,  as  from 
an  urn  !  i® 

LII. 

Glowing,  and  circumfused  in  speechless  love, 
Their  full  divinity  inadequate 
That  feeling  to  express,  or  to  improve, 
The  gods  become  as  mortals,  and  man's  fate 
Has  moments  like  their  brightest ;  but  the  weight 
Of  earth  recoils  upon  us  ;  —  let  it  go ! 
We  can  recal  such  visions,  and  create. 
From  what  has  been,  or  might  be,  things  which  grow 
Into  thy  statue's  form,  and  look  like  gods  below. 

LIII. 

I  leave  to  learned  fingers,  and  wise  hands. 
The  artist  and  his  ape  ^^  to  teach  and  tell 
How  well  his  connoisseurship  understands 
The  graceful  bend,  and  the  voluptuous  swell : 
Let  these  describe  the  undescribable  : 
I  would  not  their  vile  breath  should  crisp  the  stream 
Wherein  that  image  shall  for  ever  dwell ; 
The  unruffled  mirror  of  the  loveliest  dream 
That  ever  left  the  sky  on  the  deep  soul  to  beam. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  151 

LIV. 

In  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie 
Ashes  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  is 
Even  in  itself  an  immortality, 
Though  there  were  nothing  save  the  past,  and  this, 
The  particle  of  those  sublimities 
Which  have  relapsed  to  chaos  :  —  here  repose 
Angelo's,  Alfieri's  bones,  and  his, 
The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes  ; 
Here  Machiavelli's  earth  returned  to  whence  it  rose. 

LV. 

These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  elements, 

Might  furnish  forth  creation  :  —  Italy ! 

Time,  which  hath  wrong'd  thee  with  ten  thousand 

rents 
Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny. 
And  hath  denied,  to  every  other  sky, 
Spirits  which  soar  from  ruin  :  —  thy  decay 
Is  still  impregnate  with  divinity, 
Which  gilds  it  with  revivifying  ray ; 
Such  as  the  great  of  yore,  Canova  is  to-day. 

LVI. 

But  where  repose  the  all  Etruscan  three  — 
Dante  and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than  they, 
The  Bard  of  Prose,  creative  spirit !  he 
Of  the  Hundred  Tales  of  love  —  where  did  they  lay 
Their  bones,  distinguished  from  our  common  clay 
In  death  as  life?     Are  they  resolved  to  dust. 
And  have  their  country's  marbles  naught  to  say  ? 
Could  not  her  quarries  furnish  forth  one  bust? 
Did  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth  entrust  ? 


152  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  iv. 

LVII. 

Ungrateful  Florence !    Dante  sleeps  afar. 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore ; 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war, 
Proscribed  the  bard  whose  name  for  evermore 
Their  children's  children  would  in  vain  adore 
With  the  remorse  of  ages ;  and  the  crown 
Which  Petrarch's  laureate  brow  supremely  wore, 
Upon  a  far  and  foreign  soil  had  grown, 
His  life,  his   fame,  his  grave,  though   rifled  —  not 
thine  own. 

LVIII. 

Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeath'd 
His  dust,  —  and  lies  it  not  her  Great  among, 
With  many  a  sweet  and  solemn  requiem  breathed 
O'er  him  who  form'd  the  Tuscan's  siren  tongue  ? 
That  music  in  itself,  whose  sounds  are  song. 
The  poetry  of  speech  ?    No ;  —  even  his  tomb 
Uptorn,  must  bear  the  hyaena  bigot's  wrong. 
Nor  more  amidst  the  meaner  dead  find  room, 
Nor  claim  a  passing  sigh,  because  it  told  for  whom! 

LIX. 
And  Santa  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust ; 
Yet  for  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 
The  Caesar's  pageant,  shorn  of  Brutus'  bust, 
Did  but  of  Rome's  best  Son  remind  her  more : 
Happier  Ravenna !  on  thy  hoary  shore, 
Fortress  of  falling  empire !  honor'd  sleeps 
The  immortal  exile  ;  —  Arqua,  too,  her  store 
Of  tuneful  relics  proudly  claims  and  keeps. 
While  Florence  vainly  begs  her  banish'd  dead  and 
weeps. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  153 

LX. 

What  is  her  pyramid  of  precious  stones? 
Of  porphyry,  jasper,  agate,  and  all  hues 
Of  gem  and  marble,  to  encrust  the  bones 
Of  merchant-dukes  ?  the  momentary  dews 
Which,  sparkling  to  the  twilight  stars,  infuse 
Freshness  in  the  green  turf  that  wraps  the  dead, 
Whose  names  are  mausoleums  of  the  Muse, 
Are  gently  prest  with  far  more  reverent  tread 
Than  ever  paced  the  slab  which  paves  the  princely 
head. 

LXI. 

There  be  more  things  to  greet  the  heart  and  eyes 
In  Arno's  dome  of  Art's  most  princely  shrine, 
Where  Sculpture  with  her  rainbow  sister  vies ; 
There  be  more  marvels  yet  —  but  not  for  mine ; 
For  I  have  been  accustom'd  to  entwine 
My  thoughts  with  Nature  rather  in  the  fields, 
Than  Art  in  galleries  :  though  a  work  divine 
Calls  for  my  spirit's  homage,  yet  it  yields 
Less  than  it  feels,  because  the  weapon  which  it  wields 

LXII. 

Is  of  another  temper,  and  I  roam 
By  Thrasimene's  lake,  in  the  defiles 
Fatal  to  Roman  rashness,  more  at  home ; 
For  there  the  Carthaginian's  warlike  wiles 
Come  back  before  me,  as  his  skill  beguiles 
The  host  between  the  mountains  and  the  shore, 
Where  Courage  falls  in  her  despairing  files, 
And  torrents,  swoll'n  to  rivers  with  their  gore. 
Reek  through  the  sultry  plain,  with  legions  scatter'd 
o'er. 


154  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  iv. 


Like  to  a  forest  felPd  by  mountain  winds ; 
And  such  the  storm  of  battle  on  this  day, 
And  such  the  frenzy,  whose  convulsion  blinds 
To  all  save  carnage,  that,  beneath  the  fray, 
An  earthquake  reel'd  unheededly  away !  ^* 
None  felt  stern  Nature  rocking  at  his  feet, 
And  yawning  forth  a  grave  for  those  who  lay 
Upon  their  bucklers  for  a  winding  sheet ; 
Such  is  the  absorbing  hate   when  warring  nations 
meet! 

LXIV. 

The  Earth  to  them  was  as  a  rolling  bark 

Which  bore  them  to  Eternity  ;  they  saw 

The  Ocean  round,  but  had  no  time  to  mark 

The  motions  of  their  vessel ;  Nature's  law. 

In  them  suspended,  reck'd  not  of  the  awe 

Which  reigns  when  mountains  tremble,  and  the 

birds 
Plunge  in  the  clouds  for  refuge  and  withdraw 
From  their  down-toppling  nests ;   and  bellowing 

herds 
Stumble  o'er  heaving  plains,  and  man's  dread  hath 

no  words. 

LXV. 

Far  other  scene  is  Thrasimene  now ; 

Her  lake  a  sheet  of  silver,  and  her  plain 

Rent  by  no  ravage  save  the  gentle  plough ; 

Her  aged  trees  rise  thick  as  once  the  slain 

Lay  where  their  roots  are  ;  but  a  brook  hath  ta'en  — 

A  little  rill  of  scanty  stream  and  bed  — 

A  name  of  blood  from  that  day's  sanguine  rain ; 


CANTO  rv.]  PILGRIMAGE.  155 

And  Sanguinetto  tells  ye  where  the  dead 
Made  the  earth  wet,  and  turned  the  unwilling  waters 
red.i9 

LXVI. 

But  thou,  Clitumnus  !  in  thy  sweetest  wave 
Of  the  most  living  crystal  that  was  e'er 
The  haunt  of  river  nymph,  to  gaze  and  lave 
Her  limbs  where  nothing  hid  them,  thou  dost  rear 
Thy  grassy  banks  whereon  the  milk-white  steer 
Grazes  ;  the  purest  god  of  gentle  waters ! 
And  most  serene  of  aspect,  and  most  clear ; 
Surely  that  stream  was  unprofaned  by  slaughters  — 
A  mirror  and  a  bath  for  Beauty's  youngest  daughters  ! 

LXVI  I. 

And  on  thy  happy  shore  a  Temple  *  still. 
Of  small  and  delicate  proportion,  keeps. 
Upon  a  mild  declivity  of  hill. 
Its  memory  of  thee  ;  beneath  it  sweeps 
Thy  current's  calmness ;  oft  from  out  it  leaps 
The  finny  darter  with  the  glittering  scales. 
Who  dwells  and  revels  in  thy  glassy  deeps  ; 
While,  chance,  some  scatter'd  water-lily  sails 
Down  where  the  shallower  wave  still  tells  its  bub- 
bling tales. 

LXVIII. 

Pass  not  unblest  the  Genius  of  the  place  ! 
If  through  the  air  a  zephyr  more  serene 
Win  to  the  brow,  'tis  his ;  and  if  ye  trace 
Along  his  margin  a  more  eloquent  green. 
If  on  the  heart  the  freshness  of  the  scene 
Sprinkle  its  coolness,  and  from  the  dry  dust 


iS6^  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  iv. 

Of  weary  life  a  moment  lave  it  clean 
With  Nature's  baptism,  —  'tis  to  him  ye  must 
Pay  orisons  for  this  suspension  of  disgust. ^i 

LXIX. 

The  roar  of  waters !  —  from  the  headlong  height 
Velino  cleaves  the  wave-worn  precipice ; 
The  fall  of  waters !  rapid  as  the  light 
The  flashing  mass  foams  shaking  the  abyss ; 
The  hell  of  waters  !  where  they  howl  and  hiss, 
And  boil  in  endless  torture  ;  while  the  sweat 
Of  their  great  agony,  wrung  out  from  this 
Their  Phlegethon,  curls  round  the  rocks  of  jet 
That  gird  the  gjulf  around,  in  pitiless  horror  set, 

LXX. 

And  mounts  in  spray  the  skies,  and  thence  again 
Returns  in  an  unceasing  shower,  which  round. 
With  its  unemptied  cloud  of  gentle  rain, 
Is  an  eternal  April  to  the  ground. 
Making  it  all  one  emerald  :  —  how  profound 
The  gulf  !  and  how  the  giant  element 
From  rock  to  rock  leaps  with  delirious  bound, 
Crushing  the  cliffs,  which,  downward  worn  and  rent 
With  his  fierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a  fearful 
vent! 

LXXI. 

To  the  broad  column  which  rolls  on,  and  shows 

More  like  the  fountain  of  an  infant  sea 

Torn  from  the  womb  of  mountains  by  the  throes 

Of  a  new  world,  than  only  thus  to  be 

Parent  of  rivers,  which  flow  gushingly. 

With  many  windings,  through  the  vale : — Look  back! 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  1 57 

Lo !  where  it  comes  like  an  eternity, 
As  if  to  sweep  down  all  things  in  its  track. 
Charming  the  eye  with  dread, — a  matchless  cata- 
ract,^ 

LXXII, 

Horribly  beautiful !  but  on  the  verge, 
From  side  to  side,  beneath  the  glittering  morn, 
An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  infernal  surge,'*^ 
Like  Hope  upon  a  death-bed,  and,  unworn 
Its  steady  dyes,  while  all  around  is  torn 
By  the  distracted  waters,  bears  serene 
Its  brilliant  hues  with  all  their  beams  unshorn ; 
Resembling,  mid  the  torture  of  the  scene. 
Love  watching  Madness  with  unalterable  mien. 

LXXIII. 

Once  more  upon  the  woody  Apennine, 
The  infant  Alps,  which  —  had  I  not  before 
Gazed  on  their  mightier  parents,  where  the  pine 
Sits  on  more  shaggy  summits,  and  where  roar 
The  thundering  lauwine^  —  might  be  worshipp'd 

more ; 
But  I  have  seen  the  soaring  Jungfrau  rear 
Her  never-trodden  snow,  and  seen  the  hoar 
Glaciers  of  bleak  Mont  Blanc  both  far  and  near. 
And  in  Chimari  heard  the  thunder-hills  of  fear, 

LXXIV. 

The  Acroceraunian  mountains  of  old  name ; 
And  on  Parnassus  seen  the  eagles  fly 
Like  spirits  of  the  spot,  as  'twere  for  fame, 
For  still  they  soar'd  unutterably  high  : 
Tve  look'd  on  Ida  with  a  Trojan's  eye ; 


IS8  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  [canto  rv 

Athos,  Olympus,  ^tna,  Atlas,  made 
These  hills  seem  things  of  lesser  dignity. 
All,  save  the  lone  Soracte's  height,  display'd 
Not  now  in  snow,  which  asks  the  lyric  Roman's  aid 

LXXV. 

For  our  remembrance,  and  from  out  the  plain 
Heaves  like  a  long-swept  wave  about  to  break, 
And  on  the  curl  hangs  pausing :  not  in  vain 
May  he,  who  will,  his  recollections  rake 
And  quote  in  classic  raptures,  and  awake 
The  hills  with  Latian  echoes ;  I  abhorr'd 
Too  much,  to  conquer  for  the  poet's  sake. 
The  driird  dull  lesson,  forced  down  word  by  word  ^ 
In  my  repugnant  youth,  with  pleasure  to  record 

LXXVI. 

Aught  that  recals  the  daily  drug  which  turn'd 
My  sickening  memory;  and,  though   Time  hath 

taught 
My  mind  to  meditate  what  then  it  learn'd, 
Yet  such  the  fix'd  inveteracy  wrought 
By  the  impatience  of  my  early  thought, 
That,  with  the  freshness  wearing  out  before 
My  mind  could  relish  what  it  might  have  sought, 
If  free  to  choose,  I  cannot  now  restore 
Its  health  ;  but  what  it  then  detested,  still  abhor. 

LXXVII. 

Then  farewell,  Horace  ;  whom  I  hated  so, 
Not  for  thy  faults,  but  mine  ;  it  is  a  curse 
To  understand,  not  feel  thy  lyric  flow. 
To  comprehend,  but  never  love  thy  verse. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  159 

Although  no  deeper  Moralist  rehearse 
Our  little  life,  nor  Bard  prescribe  his  art, 
Nor  hveher  Satirist  the  conscience  pierce, 
Awakening  without  wounding  the  touch'd  heart, 
Yet  fare  thee  well  —  upon  Soracte's  ridge  we  part. 

LXXVIII. 

Oh  Rome !  my  country !  city  of  the  soul ! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee. 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  !  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance  ?  Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  Ye  ! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day  — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

LXXIX. 

The  Niobe  of  nations  !  there  she  stands,'" 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe ; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  wither'd  hands. 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scatterM  long  ago ; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now ; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers  :  dost  thou  flow. 
Old  Tiber  !  through  a  marble  wilderness? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress. 

LXXX. 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Blood,  and 

Fire, 
Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hill'd  city's  pride ; 


l6o  CHILDE   HAROLD'S        [canto  iv. 

She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride, 
Where  the  car  climb'd  the  capitol ;  far  and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site  :  — 
Chaos  of  ruins !  who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light. 
And   say,  "  here  was,   or  is,"  where  all   is  doubly 
night  ? 

LXXXI. 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 
Night's  daughter.  Ignorance,  hath  wrapt  and  wrap 
All  round  us  ;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err : 
The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their  map, 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap ; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections  ;  now  we  clap 
Our  hands,  and  cry  "  Eureka! "  it  is  clear  — 
When  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas !  the  lofty  city !  and  alas ! 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs !  '^  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  conquerors  sword  in  bearing  fame  away  ! 
Alas,  for  Tully's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay, 
And  Livy's  pictured  page  !  —  but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection  ;  all  beside  —  decay. 
Alas,  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  was 

free  ! 

Lxxxni. 
Oh  thou,  whose  chariot  roll'd  on  Fortune's  wheel. 
Triumphant  Sylla !  Thou,  who  didst  subdue 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  i6r 

Thy  country's  foes  ere  thou  wouldst  pause  to  feel 
The  wrath  of  thy  own  wrongs,  or  reap  the  due 
Of  hoarded  vengeance  till  thine  eagles  flew 
O'er  prostrate  Asia ;  —  thou,  who  with  thy  frown 
Annihilated  senates  —  Roman,  too, 
With  all  thy  vices,  for  thou  didst  lay  down 
With  an  atoning  smile  a  more  than  earthly  crown  — 

LXXXIV. 

The  dictatorial  wreath,2«  —  couldst  thou  divine 
To  what  would  one  day  dwindle  that  which  made 
Thee  more  than  mortal?  and  that  so  supine 
By  aught  than  Romans  Rome  should  thus  be  laid? 
She  who  was  named  Eternal,  and  array'd 
Her  warriors  but  to  conquer  —  she  who  veil'd 
Earth  with  her  haughty  shadow,  and  displayed. 
Until  the  o'er-canopied  horizon  fail'd. 
Her  rushing  wings  —  Oh !  she  who  was  Almighty 
hail'd ! 

LXXXV. 

Sylla  was  first  of  victors ;  but  our  own 
The  sagest  of  usurpers,  Cromwell ;  he 
Too  swept  off  senates  while  he  hew'd  the  throne 
Down  to  a  block  —  immortal  rebel !     See 
What  crimes  it  costs  to  be  a  moment  free 
And  famous  through  all  ages !  but  beneath 
His  fate  the  moral  lurks  of  destiny ; 
His  day  of  double  victory  and  death 
Beheld  him  win  two  realms,  and,  happier,  yield  his 
breath. » 

LXXXVI. 

The  third  of  the  same  moon  whose  former  course 
Had  all  but  crown'd  him,  on  the  selfsame  day 


l62  CHILDE  HAROLD'S        [canto  iv. 

Deposed  him  gently  from  his  throne  of  force, 
And  laid  him  with  the  earth's  preceding  clay. 
And  show'd  not  Fortune  thus  how  fame  and  sway, 
And  all  we  deem  delightful,  and  consume 
Our  souls  to  compass  through  each  arduous  way, 
Are  in  her  eyes  less  happy  than  the  tomb  ? 
Were  they  but  so  in  man's,  how  different  were  his 
doom ! 

LXXXVII. 

And  thou,  dread  statue  !  yet  existent  in 
The  austerest  form  of  naked  majesty, 
Thou  who  beheldest,  mid  the  assassins'  din, 
At  thy  bathed  base  the  bloody  Caesar  lie. 
Folding  his  robe  in  dying  dignity. 
An  offering  to  thine  altar  from  the  queen 
Of  gods  and  men,  great  Nemesis !  did  he  die, 
And  thou,  too,  perish,  Pompey?  have  ye  been 
Victors  of  countless  kings,  or  puppets  of  a  scene? 

LXXXVIII. 

And  thou,  the  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome, 
She-wolf!  whose  brazen-imaged  dugs  impart 
The  milk  of  conquest  yet  within  the  dome 
Where,  as  a  monument  of  antique  art. 
Thou  standest :  —  Mother  of  the  mighty  heart. 
Which  the  great  founder  suck'd  from  thy  wild  teat, 
Scorch'd  by  the  Roman  Jove's  ethereal  dart, 
And  thy  limbs  black  with  lightning — dost  thou  yet 
Guard   thine   immortal   cubs,   nor  thy  fond   charge 
forget  ? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou  dost ;  —  but  all  thy  foster  babes  are  dead  -^ 
The  men  of  iron ;  and  the  world  hath  rear'd 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  163 

Cities  from  out  their  sepulchres  :  men  bled 

In  imitation  of  the  things  they  fear'd, 

And  fought  and  conquered,  and  the  same  course 

steer'd, 
At  apish  distance ;  but  as  yet  none  have. 
Nor  could,  the  same  supremacy  have  near'd, 
Save  one  vain  man,  who  is  not  in  the  grave. 

But,   vanquish'd   by  himself,    to  his  own  slaves  a 
slave  — 

xc. 
The  fool  of  false  dominion  —  and  a  kind 
Of  bastard  Caesar,  following  him  of  old 
With  steps  unequal ;  for  the  Roman's  mind 
Was  modell'd  in  a  less  terrestrial  mould. 
With  passions  fiercer,  yet  a  judgment  cold, 
And  an  immortal  instinct  which  redeem'd 
The  frailties  of  a  heart  so  soft,  yet  bold, 
Alcides  with  the  distaff  now  he  seem'd 

At  Cleopatra's  feet,  —  and  now  himself  he  beam'd, 

xci. 

And  came  —  and  saw  —  and  conquer'd  !     But  the 

man 
Who  would  have  tamed  his  eagles  down  to  flee, 
Like  a  train'd  falcon,  in  the  Gallic  van. 
Which  he,  in  sooth,  long  led  to  victory, 
With  a  deaf  heart  which  never  seem'd  to  be 
A  listener  to  itself,  was  strangely  framed  ; 
With  but  one  weakest  weakness  —  vanity, 
Coquettish  in  ambition  —  still  he  aim'd  — 
At   what?    can    he   avouch  —  or    answer    what    he 

claim'd  ? 


164  CHILD E  HAROLD'S        [canto  IV. 

XCII. 

And  would  be  all  or  nothing  —  nor  could  wait 
For  the  sure  grave  to  level  him ;  few  years 
Had  fix'd  him  with  the  Caesars  in  his  fate. 
On  whom  we  tread  :  For  this  the  conqueror  rears 
The  arch  of  triumph  !  and  for  this  the  tears 
And  blood  of  earth  flow  on  as  they  have  flow'd, 
A  universal  deluge,  which  appears 
Without  an  ark  for  wretched  man's  abode, 
And  ebbs  but  to  reflow !  —  Renew  thy  rainbow,  God ! 

XCIII. 

What  from  this  barren  being  do  we  reap  ? 
Our  senses  narrow,  and  our  reason  frail. 
Life  short,  and  truth  a  gem  which  loves  the  deep, 
And  all  things  weigh'd  in  custom's  falsest  scale ; 
Opinion  an  omnipotence,  —  whose  veil 
Mantles  the  earth  with  darkness,  until  right 
And  wrong  are  accidents,  and  men  grow  pale 
Lest  their  own  judgments  should  become  too  bright, 
And  their  free  thoughts  be  crimes,  and  earth  have 
too  much  light. 

xciv. 
And  thus  they  plod  in  sluggish  misery, 
Rotting  from  sire  to  son,  and  age  to  age, 
Proud  of  their  trampled  nature,  and  so  die. 
Bequeathing  their  hereditary  rage 
To  the  new  race  of  inborn  slaves,  who  wage 
War  for  their  chains,  and  rather  than  be  free. 
Bleed  gladiator-like,  and  still  engage 
Within  the  same  arena  where  they  see 
Their  fellows  fall  before,  like  leaves  of  the  same  tree. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  1 65 

xcv. 
I  speak  not  of  men's  creeds  —  they  rest  between 
Man  and  his  Maker  —  but  of  things  allowed, 
Averr'd,  and  known,  —  and  daily,  hourly  seen  — 
The  yoke  that  is  upon  us  doubly  bow'd, 
And  the  intent  of  tyranny  avow'd, 
The  edict  of  Earth's  rulers,  who  are  grown 
The  apes  of  him  who  humbled  once  the  proud, 
And  shook  them  from  their  slumbers  on  the  throne. 
Too  glorious,  were  this  all  his  mighty  arm  had  done. 

xcvi. 
Can  tyrants  but  by  tyrants  conquer'd  be, 
And  Freedom  find  no  champion  and  no  child 
Such  as  Columbia  saw  arise  when  she 
Sprung  forth  a  Pallas,  arm'd  and  undefiled? 
Or  must  such  minds  be  nourished  in  the  wild, 
Deep  in  the  unpruned  forest,  midst  the  roar 
Of  cataracts,  where  nursing  Nature  smiled 
On  infant  Washington?     Has  Earth  no  more 
Such  seeds  within   her  breast,  or  Europe  no   such 
shore  ? 

XCVII. 

But  France  got  drunk  with  blood  to  vomit  crime. 
And  fatal  have  her  Saturnalia  been 
To  Freedom's  cause,  in  every  age  and  clime ; 
Because  the  deadly  days  which  we  have  seen. 
And  vile  Ambition,  that  built  up  between 
Man  and  his  hopes  an  adamantine  wall, 
And  the  base  pageant  last  upon  the  scene. 
Are  grown  the  pretext  for  the  eternal  thrall 
Which   nips  life's  tree,  and  dooms  man's  worst  — 
his  second  fall. 


l66  CHILD E  HAROLD'S        [CANTO  iv. 

XCVIII. 

Yet,  Freedom  !  yet  thy  banner,  torn,  but  flying, 
Streams  like  the  thunder-storm  against  the  wind  ; 
Thy  trumpet  voice,  though  broken  now  and  dying, 
The  loudest  still  the  tempest  leaves  behind  5 
Thy  tree  hath  lost  its  blossoms,  and  the  rind, 
Chopp'd  by  the  axe,  looks  rough  and  little  worth. 
But  the  sap  lasts,  and  still  the  seed  we  find 
Sown  deep,  even  in  the  bosom  of  the  North ; 
So  shall  a  better  spring  less  bitter  fruit  bring  forth. 

XCIX. 

There  is  a  stern  round  tower  of  other  days, 
Firm  as  a  fortress,  with  its  fence  of  stone. 
Such  as  an  army's  baffled  strength  delays, 
Standing  with  half  its  battlements  alone, 
And  with  two  thousand  years  of  ivy  grown, 
The  garland  of  eternity,  where  wave 
The  green  leaves  over  all  by  time  o'erthrown  ;  — 
What  was  this  tower  of  strength  ?  within  its  cave 

What  treasure  lay  so  locked,  so  hid?  —  A  woman's 
grave. 

c. 
But  who  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  dead, 
Tomb'd  in  a  palace?    Was  she  chaste  and  fair? 
Worthy  a  king's  —  or  more  —  a  Roman's  bed  ? 
What  race  of  chiefs  and  heroes  did  she  bear  ? 
What  daughter  of  her  beauties  was  the  heir? 
How  lived — how  loved — how  died  she  ?  Was  she  not 
So  honor'd  —  and  conspicuously  there. 
Where  meaner  relics  must  not  dare  to  rot. 

Placed  to  commemorate  a  more  than  mortal  lot? 


C.NTO  iv.J  PILGRIMAGE.  167 

CI. 

Was  she  as  those  who  love  their  lords,  or  they 
Who  love  the  lords  of  others  ?  such  have  been 
Even  in  the  olden  time,  Rome's  annals  say. 
Was  she  a  matron  of  Cornelia's  mien, 
Or  the  light  air  of  Egypt's  graceful  queen, 
Profuse  of  joy  — or  'gainst  it  did  she  war 
Inveterate  in  virtue?  Did  she  lean 
To  the  soft  side  of  the  heart,  or  wisely  bar 
Love  from  amongst  her  griefs?  —  for  such  the  affec- 
tions are. 

CII. 
Perchance  she  died  in  youth :  it  may  be,  bow'd 
With  woes  far  heavier  than  the  ponderous  tomb 
That  weigh'd  upon  her  gentle  dust,  a  cloud 
Might  gather  o'er  her  beauty,  and  a  gloom 
In  her  dark  eye,  prophetic  of  the  doom 
Heaven  gives  its  favorites  —  early  death  ;  yet  shed 
A  sunset  charm  around  her,  and  illume 
With  hectic  light,  the  Hesperus  of  the  dead. 
Of  her  consuming  cheek  the  autumnal  leaf-like  red. 

cm. 
Perchance  she  died  in  age  —  surviving  all, 
Charms,  kindred,  children  —  with  the  silver  gray 
On  her  long  tresses,  which  might  yet  recall. 
It  may  be,  still  a  something  of  the  day 
When  they  were  braided,  and  her  proud  array 
And  lovely  form  were  envied,  praised,  and  eyed 
By  Rome  —  but  whither  would  Conjecture  stray? 
Thus  much  alone  we  know —  Metella  died. 
The  wealthiest  Roman's  wife  :  Behold  his  love  or  pride! 


l68  CHILDE  HAROLD 'S       [canto  iv. 

CIV. 

I  know  not  why  —  but  standing  thus  by  thee 
It  seems  as  if  I  had  thine  inmate  known, 
Thou  tomb !  and  other  days  come  back  on  me 
With  recollected  music,  though  the  tone 
Is  changed  and  solemn,  like  the  cloudy  groan 
Of  dying  thunder  on  the  distant  wind  ; 
Yet  could  I  seat  me  by  this  ivied  stone 
Till  I  had  bodied  forth  the  heated  mind 
Forms  from  the  floating  wreck  which  Ruin  leaves 
behind ; 

cv. 

And  from  the  planks,  far  shatter'd  o'er  the  rocks, 
Built  me  a  little  bark  of  hope,  once  more 
To  battle  with  the  ocean  and  the  shocks 
Of  the  loud  breakers,  and  the  ceaseless  roar 
Which  rushes  on  the  solitary  shore 
Where  all  lies  founder'd  that  was  ever  dear : 
But  could  I  gather  from  the  wave-worn  store 
Enough  for  my  rude  boat,  where  should  I  steer? 
There  wooes  no  home,  nor  hope,  nor  life,  save  what 
is  here. 

cvi. 

Then  let  the  winds  howl  on !  their  harmony 
Shall  henceforth  be  my  music,  and  the  night 
The  sound  shall  temper  with  the  owlets'  cry, 
As  I  now  hear  them,  in  the  fading  light 
Dim  o'er  the  bird  of  darkness'  native  site, 
Answering  each  other  on  the  Palatine, 
With  their  large  eyes,  all  glistening  gray  and  bright, 
And  sailing  pinions.  —  Upon  such  a  shrine 
What  are  our  petty  griefs  ? — let  me  not  number  mine. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  169 

CVII. 

Cypress  and  ivy,  weed  and  wallflower  grown 
Matted  and  massed  together,  hillocks  heap'd 
On   what  were  chambers,  arch   crush'd,   column 

strown 
In  fragments,  choked  up  vaults,  and  frescos  steep'd 
In  subterranean  damps,  where  the  owl  peep'd. 
Deeming  it  midnight :  —  Temples,  baths,  or  halls? 
Pronounce  who  can ;  for  all  that  Learning  reap'd 
From  her  research  hath  been,  that  these  are  walls  — 
Behold  the  Imperial  Mount !  'tis  thus  the  mighty 

falls.80 

CVIII. 
There  is  the  moral  of  all  human  tales  ;  '^ 
'Tis  but  the  same  rehearsal  of  the  past. 
First  Freedom  and  then  Glory  —  when  that  fails. 
Wealth,  vice,  corruption,  —  barbarism  at  last. 
And  History,  with  all  her  volumes  vast, 
Hath  but  one  page,  —  'tis  better  written  here. 
Where  gorgeous  Tyranny  hath  thus  amass'd 
All  treasures,  all  delights,  that  eye  or  ear. 
Heart,  soul   could   seek,   tongue  ask — Away  with 
words !  draw  near, 


Admire,  exult  —  despise  —  laugh,  weep,  —  for  here 
There  is  such  matter  for  all  feeling :  —  Man  ! 
Thou  pendulum  betwixt  a  smile  and  tear. 
Ages  and  realms  are  crowded  in  this  span, 
This  mountain,  whose  obliterated  plan 
The  pyramid  of  empires  pinnacled, 
Of  Glory's  gewgaws  shining  in  the  van 


1 7©  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  iv. 

Till  the  sun's  rays  with  added  flame  were  fill'd  ! 

Where  are  its  golden  roofs !  where  those  who  dared 
to  build  ? 

ex. 
TuUy  was  not  so  eloquent  as  thou, 
Thou  nameless  column  with  the  buried  base  ! 
What  are  the  laurels  of  the  Ceesar's  brow  ? 
Crown  me  with  ivy  from  his  dwelling-place. 
Whose  arch  or  pillar  meets  me  in  the  face, 
Titus  or  Trajan's  ?  No  —  'tis  that  of  Time : 
Triumph,  arch,  pillar,  all  he  doth  displace 
Scoffing ;  and  apostolic  statues  climb  ^ 

To  crush  the  imperial  urn,  whose  ashes  slept  sublime, 

CXI. 

Buried  in  air,  the  deep  blue  sky  of  Rome, 
And  looking  to  the  stars  :  they  had  contain'd 
A  spirit  which  with  these  would  find  a  home, 
The  last  of  those  who  o'er  the  whole  earth  reign'd. 
The  Roman  globe,  for  after  none  sustain'd, 
But  yielded  back  his  conquests  :  — he  was  more 
Than  a  mere  Alexander,  and,  unstain'd 
With  household  blood  and  wine,  serenely  wore 
His  sovereign  virtues  —  still  we  Trajan's  name  adore.^^ 

CXII. 

Where  is  the  rock  of  Triumph,  the  high  place 
Where  Rome  embraced  her  heroes  ?  where  the  steep 
Tarpeian?  fittest  goal  of  Treason's  race. 
The  promontory  whence  the  Traitor's  Leap 
Cured  all  ambition.     Did  the  conquerors  heap 
Their  spoils  here?  Yes  ;  and  in  yon  field  below, 
A  thousand  years  of  silenced  factions  sleep  — 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  171 

The  Forum,  where  the  immortal  accents  glow, 
And  still   the   eloquent   air   breathes  —  burns  with 
Cicero ! 

CXIII. 

The  field  of  freedom,  faction,  fame,  and  blood: 
Here  a  proud  people's  passions  were  exhaled. 
From  the  first  hour  of  empire  in  the  bud 
To  that  when  further  worlds  to  conquer  fail'd ; 
But  long  before  had  Freedom's  face  been  veil'd. 
And  Anarchy  assumed  her  attributes ; 
Till  every  lawless  soldier  who  assail'd 
Trod  on  the  trembling  senate's  slavish  mutes. 
Or  raised  the  venal  voice  of  baser  prostitutes. 

cxiv. 
Then  turn  we  to  her  latest  tribune's  name, 
From  her  ten  thousand  tyrants  turn  to  thee, 
Redeemer  of  dark  centuries  of  shame  — 
The  friend  of  Petrarch  —  hope  of  Italy  — 
Rienzi !  last  of  Romans  !  While  the  tree 
Of  freedom's  wither'd  trunk  puts  forth  a  leaf. 
Even  for  thy  tomb  a  garland  let  it  be  — 
The  forum's  champion,  and  the  people's  chief — 
Her  new-born  Numa  thou — with  reign,  alas!  too  brief. 

cxv. 
Egeria !  sweet  creation  of  some  heart 
Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  fair 
As  thine  ideal  breast ;  whate'er  thou  art 
Or  wert,  —  a  young  Aurora  of  the  air. 
The  nympholepsy  of  some  fond  despair ; 
Or,  it  might  be,  a  beauty  of  the  earth. 
Who  found  a  more  than  common  votary  there 


172  CHILD E  HAROLD'S         [canto  iv. 

Too  much  adoring ;  whatsoe'er  thy  birth, 
Thou  wert  a  beautiful  thought,  and  softly  bodied  forth. 

ex  VI. 

The  mosses  of  thy  fountain  still  are  sprinkled 
With  thine  Elysian  water-drops  ;  the  face 
Of  thy  cave-guarded  spring,  with  years  unwrinkled. 
Reflects  the  meek-eyed  genius  of  the  place. 
Whose  green,  wild  margin  now  no  more  erase 
Art's  works ;  nor  must  the  delicate  waters  sleep, 
Prison'd  in  marble,  bubbling  from  the  base 
Of  the  cleft  statue,  with  a  gentle  leap 
The  rill  runs  o'er,  and  round,  fern,  flowers,  and  ivy, 
creep, 

CXVII. 

Fantastically  tangled  ;  the  green  hills 
Are  clothed  with  early  blossoms,  through  the  grass 
The  quick-eyed  lizard  rustles,  and  the  bills 
Of  summer-birds  sing  welcome  as  ye  pass  ; 
Flowers  fresh  in  hue,  and  many  in  their  class, 
Implore  the  pausing  step,  and  with  their  dyes 
Dance  in  the  soft  breeze  in  a  fairy  mass ; 
The  sweetness  of  the  violet's  deep  blue  eyes, 
Kiss'd  by  the  breath  of  heaven,  seems  color'd  by  its 
skies. 

CXVIII. 

Here  didst  thou  dwell,  in  this  enchanted  cover, 

Egeria  !  thy  all  heavenly  bosom  beating 

For  the  far  footsteps  of  thy  mortal  lover ; 

The  purple  Midnight  veiled  that  mystic  meeting 

With  her  most  starry  canopy,  and  seating 

Thyself  by  thine  adorer,  what  befel  ? 

This  cave  was  surely  shaped  out  for  the  greeting 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  173 

Of  an  enamoured  Goddess,  and  the  cell 
Haunted  by  holy  Love  —  the  earliest  oracle  ! 

cxix. 

And  didst  thou  not,  thy  breast  to  his  replying. 
Blend  a  celestial  with  a  human  heart ; 
And  Love,  which  dies  as  it  was  born,  in  sighing, 
Share  with  immortal  transports  ?  could  thine  art 
Make  them  indeed  immortal,  and  impart 
The  purity  of  heaven  to  earthly  joys, 
Expel  the  venom  and  not  blunt  the  dart  — 
The  dull  satiety  which  all  destroys  — 

And  root  from  out  the  soul  the  deadly  weed  which 
cloys? 

cxx. 
Alas !  our  young  affections  run  to  waste. 
Or  water  but  the  desert ;  whence  arise 
But  weeds  of  dark  luxuriance,  tares  of  haste. 
Rank  at  the  core,  though  tempting  to  the  eyes. 
Flowers  whose  wild  odors  breathe  but  agonies. 
And  trees  whose  gums  are  poison  ;  such  the  plants 
Which  spring  beneath  her  steps  as  Passion  flies 
O'er  the  world's  wilderness,  and  vainly  pants 

For  some  celestial  fruit  forbidden  to  our  wants. 

cxxi. 

Oh  Love  !  no  habitant  of  earth  thou  art  — 

An  unseen  seraph,  we  believe  in  thee, 

A  faith  whose  martyrs  are  the  broken  heart. 

But  never  yet  hath  seen,  nor  e'er  shall  see 

The  naked  eye,  thy  form,  as  it  should  be ; 

The  mind  hath  made  thee,  as  it  peopled  heaven, 

Even  with  its  own  desiring  phantasy, 


174  CHILD E  HAROLD'S        [canto  iv. 

And  to  a  thought  such  shape  and  image  given, 
As  haunts  the  unquench'd  soul  —  parch'd  —  wearied 
—  wrung  —  and  riven. 

CXXII. 

Of  its  own  beauty  is  the  mind  diseased. 
And  fevers  into  false  creation  :  —  where, 
Where  are  the  forms  the  sculptor's  soul  hath  seized  ? 
In  him  alone.     Can  Nature  show  so  fair  ? 
Where  are  the  charms  and  virtues  which  we  dare 
Conceive  in  boyhood  and  pursue  as  men. 
The  unreach'd  Paradise  of  our  despair. 
Which  o'er-informs  the  pencil  and  the  pen. 

And   overpowers  the  page  where  it  would  bloom 
again  ? 

cxxm. 
Who  loves,  raves — 'tis  youth's  frenzy — but  the  cure 
Is  bitterer  still ;  as  charm  by  charm  unwinds 
Which  robed  our  idols,  and  we  see  too  sure 
Nor  worth  nor  beauty  dwells  from  out  the  mind's 
Ideal  shape  of  such ;  yet  still  it  binds 
The  fatal  spell,  and  still  it  draws  us  on. 
Reaping  the  whirlwind  fi-om  the  oft-sown  winds  ; 
The  stubborn  heart,  its  alchemy  begun. 

Seems  ever  near  the  prize  —  wealthiest  when  most 
undone. 

cxxiv. 
We  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away  — 
Sick — sick  ;  unfound  the  boon — unslaked  the  thirst. 
Though  to  the  last,  in  verge  of  our  decay. 
Some  phantom  lures,  such  as  we  sought  at  first  — 
But  all  too  late,  —  so  are  we  doubly  curst. 
Love,  fame,  ambition,  avarice  —  'tis  the  same. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  17$ 

Each  idle  —  and  all  ill  —  and  none  the  worst  — 
For  all  are  meteors  with  a  different  name, 
And   Death    the   sable   smoke   where   vanishes  the 

flame. 

cxxv. 
Few  —  none  —  find  what  they  love  or  could  have 

loved, 
Though  accident,  blind  contact,  and  the  strong 
Necessity  of  loving,  have  removed 
Antipathies  —  but  to  recur,  ere  long. 
Envenomed  with  irrevocable  wrong ; 
And  Circumstance,  that  unspiritual  god 
And  miscreator,  makes  and  helps  along 
Our  coming  evils  with  a  crutch-like  rod. 
Whose  touch  turns  Hope  to  dust,  —  the  dust  we  all 

have  trod. 

cxxvi. 
Our  life  is  a  false  nature  —  'tis  not  in 
The  harmony  of  things,  —  this  hard  decree. 
This  uneradicable  taint  of  sin, 
This  boundless  upas,  this  all-blasting  tree. 
Whose  root  is  earth,  whose  leaves  and  branches 

be 
The  skies  which  rain  their  plagues  on  men  like 

dew  — 
Disease,  death,  bondage  —  all  the  woes  we  see  — 
And  worse,  the  woes  we  see  not  —  which  throb 

through 
The  immedicable  soul,  with  heart-aches  ever  new. 

CXXVII. 

Yet  let  us  ponder  boldly  —  'tis  a  base  •* 
Abandonment  of  reason  to  resign 


176  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  [canto  iv. 

Our  right  of  thought  —  our  last  and  only  place 
Of  refuge  ;  this,  at  least,  shall  still  be  mine : 
Though  from  our  birth  the  faculty  divine 
Is  chain'd  and  tortured  —  cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confined, 
And  bred  in  darkness,  lest  the  truth  should  shine 
Too  brightly  on  the  unprepared  mind. 
The  beam  pours  in,  for  time  and  skill  will  couch  the 
blind. 

CXXVIII. 

Arches  on  arches  !  as  it  were  that  Rome, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line. 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome. 
Her  Coliseum  stands  ;  the  moonbeams  shine 
As  'twere  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  the  light  which  streams  here,  to  illume 
This  long-explored  but  still  exhaustless  mine 
Of  contemplation ;  and  the  azure  gloom 
Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies  assume 

cxxix. 
Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye  of  heaven. 
Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monument, 
And  shadows  forth  its  glory.     There  is  given 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  Time  hath  bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruin'd  battlement. 
For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must   yield   its   pomp,   and   wait   till   ages  are  its 
dower. 

cxxx. 
Oh  Time !  the  beautifier  of  the  dead, 
Adorner  of  the  ruin,  comforter 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  ^^^ 

And  only  healer  when  the  heart  hath  bled  — 
Time  !  the  corrector  where  our  judgments  err. 
The  test  of  truth,  love,  —  sole  philosopher, 
For  all  beside  are  sophists,  from  thy  thrift, 
Which  never  loses  though  it  doth  defer  — 
Time,  the  avenger !  unto  thee  I  lift 
My  hands,  and  eyes,  and  heart,  and  crave  of  thee  a 
gift: 

CXXXI. 

Amidst  this  wreck,  where  thou  hast  made  a  shrine 
And  temple  more  divinely  desolate. 
Among  thy  mightier  offerings  here  are  mine. 
Ruins  of  years  —  though  few,  yet  full  of  fate  :  — 
If  thou  hast  ever  seen  me  too  elate. 
Hear  me  not ;  but  if  calmly  I  have  borne 
Good,  and  reserved  my  pride  against  the  hate 
Which  shall  not  whelm  me,  let  me  not  have  worn 
This  iron  in  my  soul  in  vain  —  shall  they  not  mourn  ? 

CXXXII. 

And  thou,  who  never  yet  of  human  wrong     • 
Left  the  unbalanced  scale,  great  Nemesis  ! 
Here,  where  the  ancient  paid  thee  homage  long  — 
Thou,  who  didst  call  the  Furies  from  the  abyss. 
And  round  Orestes  bade  them  howl  and  hiss 
For  that  unnatural  retribution — just. 
Had  it  but  been  from  hands  less  near  —  in  this 
Thy  former  realm,  I  call  thee  from  the  dust! 
Dost  thou  not  hear  my  heart  ?  —  Awake  !  thou  shalt, 
and  must. 

CXXXIII. 

It  is  not  that  I  may  not  have  incurred 
For  my  ancestral  faults  or  mine  the  wound 


lyS  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  iv. 

I  bleed  withal,  and,  had  it  been  conferr'd 
With  a  just  weapon,  it  had  flow'd  unbound  ; 
But  now  my  blood  shall  not  sink  in  the  ground ; 
To  thee  I  do  devote  it  —  thou  shalt  take 
The  vengeance,  which  shall  yet  be   sought  and 
found. 

Which  if  /  have  not  taken  for  the  sake 

But  let  that  pass  —  I  sleep,  but  thou  shalt  yet  awake> 

cxxxrv. 

And  if  my  voice  break  forth,  His  not  that  now 
I  shrink  from  what  is  suffer'd :  let  him  speak 
Who  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my  brow, 
Or  seen  my  mind's  convulsion  leave  it  weak ; 
But  in  this  page  a  record  will  I  seek. 
Not  in  the  air  shall  these  my  words  disperse. 
Though  I  be  ashes  ;  a  far  hour  shall  wreak 
The  deep  prophetic  fulness  of  this  verse, 
And  pile  on  human  heads  the  mountain  of  my  curse ! 

cxxxv. 
That    curse    shall    be     Forgiveness.  —  Have     I 

not  — 
Hear  me,  my  mother  Earth  !  behold  it.  Heaven !  — 
Have  I  not  had  to  wrestle  with  my  lot ! 
Have  I  not  suffer'd  things  to  be  forgiven? 
Have  I  not  had  my  brain  sear'd,  my  heart  riven, 
Hopes    sapp'd,    name    blighted,    Life's    life    lied 

away  ? 
And  only  not  to  desperation  driven, 
Because  not  altogether  of  such  clay 
As  rots  into  the  souls  of  those  whom  I  survey. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  179 

CXXXVI. 

From  mighty  wrongs  to  petty  p>erfidy 
Have  I  not  seen  what  human  things  could  do  ? 
From  the  loud  roar  of  foaming  calumny 
To  the  small  whisper  of  the  as  paltry  few, 
And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile  crew, 
The  Janus  glance  of  whose  significant  eye, 
Learning  to  lie  with  silence,  would  seem  true. 
And  without  utterance,  save  the  shrug  or  sigh. 
Deal  round  to  happy  fools  its  speechless  obloquy. 

cxxxvii. 
But  I  have  lived,  and  have  not  lived  in  vain : 
My  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood  its  fire. 
And  my  frame  perish  even  in  conquering  pain ; 
But  there  is  that  within  me  which  shall  tire 
Torture  and  Time,  and  breathe  when  I  expire ; 
Something  unearthly,  which  they  deem  not  of, 
Like  the  remember'd  tone  of  a  mute  lyre, 
Shall  on  their  soften'd  spirits  sink,  and  move 
In  hearts  all  rocky  now  the  late  remorse  of  love. 

CXXXVIII. 

The  seal  is  set. — Now  welcome,  thou  dread  power! 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walk'st  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnight  hour 
With  a  deep  awe,  yet  all  distinct  from  fear ; 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls  rear 
Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 
Derives  from  thee  a  sense  so  deep  and  clear 
That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been, 
And  grow  unto  the  spot,  all-seeing  but  unseen. 


l8o  CHILDE  HAROLD 'S         [canto  iv. 

CXXXIX. 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 
In  murmur'd  pity,  or  loud-roar'd  applause. 
As  man  was  slaughter'd  by  his  fellow  man. 
And  wherefore  slaughter^  ?  wherefore,  but  because 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure.  —  Wherefore  not? 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms  — on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot  ? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

CXL. 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie : 
He  leans  upon  his  hand  —  his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony. 
And  his  droop'd  head  sinks  gradually  low  — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one. 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  —  he  is  gone, 
Ere   ceased   the    inhuman   shout  which   hail'd   the 
wretch  who  won. 

CXLI. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not  —  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away  :  ** 
He  reck'd  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize. 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
T/iere  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play. 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother  —  he,  their  sire, 
Butcher'd  to  make  a  Roman  holiday  — 
All  this  rush'd  with  his  blood  —  Shall  he  expire 
And  unavenged  ? — Arise !  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire  ! 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  i8i 

CXLII. 

But  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody  steam  ; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the  ways, 
And  roar'd  or  murmured  like  a  mountain  stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays ; 
Here,  where  the  Roman  millions'  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd. 
My  voice  sounds  much — and  fall  the  stars'  faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void  —  seats  crush'd  —  walls  bow'd  — 
And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely 
loud. 

CXLIII. 

A  ruin  —  yet  what  ruin  !  from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  rear'd ; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass, 
And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appear'd. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plunder'd,  or  but  clear'd  ? 
Alas!  developed,  opens  the  decay, 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  near'd : 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day. 
Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have  reft 
away. 

CXLIV. 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there  ; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland  forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head  ;  " 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare. 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead : 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot — 'tis  on  their  dust  ye  tread. 


l82  CHILDE  HAROLD'S        [canto  iv. 

CXLV. 

"  While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand  ;  ^ 

"  When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall ; 

♦'  And  when  Rome  falls  —  the  World."    From  our 

own  land 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient ;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unalter'd  all ; 
Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's  skill. 
The  World,  the  same  wide  den  —  of  thieves,  or  what 

ye  will. 

CXLVI. 

Simple,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sublime  — 

Shrine  of  all  saints  and  temple  of  all  gods, 

From  Jove  to  Jesus  —  spared  and  blest  by  time  ;  '^ 

Looking  tranquillity,  while  falls  or  nods 

Arch,  empire,  each  thing  round  thee,  and  man  plods 

His  way  through  thorns  to  ashes  —  glorious  dome  ! 

Shalt  thou  not  last  ?     Time's  scythe  and  tyrant's 

rods 
Shiver  upon  thee  —  sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  piety  —  Pantheon !  —  Pride  of  Rome ! 

CXLVII. 

Rehc  of  nobler  days,  and  noblest  arts  ! 
Despoil'd  yet  perfect,  with  thy  circle  spreads 
A  holiness  appealing  to  all  hearts  — 
To  art  a  model ;  and  to  him  who  treads 
Rome  for  the  sake  of  ages,  Glory  sheds 
Her  light  through  thy  sole  aperture ;  to  those 
Who  worship,  here  are  altars  for  their  beads ; 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  183 

And  they  who  feel  for  genius  may  repose 
Their  eyes  on  honor'd  forms,  whose  busts  around 
them  close.** 

CXLVIII. 

There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  light  *" 
What  do  I  gaze  on  ?  Nothing :  Look  again  ! 
Two  forms  are  slowly  shadow'd  on  my  sight  — 
Two  insulated  phantoms  of  the  brain : 
It  is  not  so  ;  I  see  them  full  and  plain  — 
An  old  man,  and  a  female  young  and  fair, 
Fresh  as  a  nursing  mother,  in  whose  vein 
The  blood  is  nectar :  —  but  what  doth  she  there, 
With  her  unmantled  neck,  and  bosom  white  and 
bare? 

CXLIX. 

Full  swells  the  deep  pure  fountain  of  young  life, 
Where  on  the  heart  dind  from  the  heart  we  took 
Our  first  and  sweetest  nurture,  when  the  wife. 
Blest  into  mother,  in  the  innocent  look, 
Or  even  the  piping  cry  of  lips  that  brook 
No  pain  and  small  suspense,  a  joy  perceives 
Man  knows  not,  when  from  out  its  cradled  nook 
She  sees  her  little  bud  put  forth  its  leaves  — 
What  may  the  fruit  be  yet.?  —  I  know  not —  Cain  was 
Eve's. 

CL. 

But  here  youth  offers  to  old  age  the  food. 
The  milk  of  his  own  gift :  —  It  is  her  sire 
To  whom  she  renders  back  tlie  debt  of  blood 
Born  with  her  birth.     No  ;  he  shall  not  expire 
While  in  those  warm  and  lovely  veins  the  fire 


l84  CHILDE  HAROLD'S       [canto  iv. 

Of  health  and  holy  feeling  can  provide 
Great  Nature's  Nile,  whose  deep  stream  rises  higher 
Than  Egypt's  river :  —  from  that  gentle  side 
Drink,  drink  and  live,  old  man  !  Heaven's  realm  holds 
no  such  tide. 

CLI. 

The  starry  fable  of  the  milky  way 
Has  not  thy  story's  purity ;  it  is 
A  constellation  of  a  sweeter  ray, 
And  sacred  Nature  triumphs  more  in  this 
Reverse  of  her  decree,  than  in  the  abyss 
Where  sparkle  distant  worlds  :  —  Oh,  holiest  nurse ! 
No  drop  of  that  clear  stream  its  way  shall  miss 
To  thy  sire's  heart,  replenishing  its  source  , 

With  life,  as  our  freed  souls  rejoin  the  universe. 

CLn. 
Turn  to  the  Mole  which  Hadrian  rear'd  on  high," 
Imperial  mimic  of  old  Egypt's  piles, 
Colossal  copyist  of  deformity, 
Whose  travell'd  phantasy  from  the  far  Nile's 
Enormous  model,  doom'd  the  artist's  toils 
To  build  for  giants,  and  for  his  vain  earth, 
His  shrunken  ashes,  raised  this  dome :  How  smiles 
The  gazer's  eye  with  philosophic  mirth. 
To  view  the  huge  design  which  sprung  from  such  a 
birth ! 

CLIII. 

But  lo  !  the  dome  —  the  vast  and  wondrous  dome," 
To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  cell  — 
Christ's  mighty  shrine  above  his  martyr's  tomb ! 
I  have  beheld  the  Ephesian's  miracle — 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  185 

Its  columns  strew  the  wilderness,  and  dwell 
The  hyaena  and  the  jackall  in  their  shade  ; 
I  have  beheld  Sophia's  bright  roofs  swell 
Their  glittering  mass  i'  the  sun,  and  have  survey'd 
Its  sanctuary  the  while  the  usurping  Moslem  pray'd ; 

CLIV. 

But  thou,  of  temples  old,  or  altars  new, 
Standest  alone  —  with  nothing  like  to  thee  — 
Worthiest  of  God,  the  holy  and  the  true. 
Since  Zion's  desolation,  when  that  He 
Forsook  his  former  city,  what  could  be, 
Of  earthly  structures,  in  his  honor  piled. 
Of  a  sublimer  aspect  ?  Majesty, 
Power,  Glory,  Strength,  and  Beauty,  all  are  aisled 
In  this  eternal  ark  of  worship  undefiled. 

CLV. 
Enter :  Us  grandeur  overwhelms  thee  not  ;*• 
And  why?  it  is  not  lesisen'd  ;  but  thy  mind, 
Expanded  by  the  genius  of  the  spot. 
Has  grown  colossal,  and  can  only  find 
A  fit  abode  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Thy  hopes  of  immortality ;  and  thou 
Shalt  one  day,  if  found  worthy,  so  defined. 
See  thy  God  face  to  face,  as  thou  dost  now 
His  Holy  of  Holies,  nor  be  blasted  by  his  brow. 

CLVl. 

Thou  movest  —  but  increasing  with  the  advance. 
Like  climbing  some  great   Alp,  which  still  doth 
rise, 


l86  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  [canto  iv. 

Deceived  by  its  gigantic  elegance ; 

Vastness    which  grows  —  but    grows    to    harmo- 
nize— 

All  musical  in  its  immensities  ; 

Rich   marbles  —  richer  painting  —  shrines  where 
flame 

The  lamps  of  gold  —  and  haughty  dome  which  vies 

In  air  with  Earth's  chief  structures,  though  their 
frame 
Sits  on  the  firm-set  ground  —  and  this  the  clouds 
must  claim. 

CLVII. 

Thou  seest  not  all ;  but  piecemeal  thou  must  break. 
To  sepaftte  contemplation,  the  great  whole ; 
And  as  the  ocean  many  bays  will  make, 
That  ask  the  eye  —  so  here  condense  thy  soul 
To  more  immediate  objects,  and  control 
Thy  thoughts  until  thy  mind  hath  got  by  heart 
Its  eloquent  proportions,  and  unroll 
In  mighty  graduations,  part  by  part, 
The  glory  which  at  once  upon  thee  did  not  dart, 

CLVIII. 

Not  by  its  fault  —  but  thine  :  Our  outward  sense 
Is  but  of  gradual  grasp  —  and  as  it  is 
That  what  we  have  of  feeling  most  intense 
Outstrips  our  faint  expression ;  even  so  this 
Outshining  and  overwhelming  edifice 
Fools  our  fond  gaze,  and  greatest  of  the  great 
Defies  at  first  our  Nature's  littleness. 
Till,  growing  with  its  growth,  we  thus  dilate 
Our  spirits  to  the  size  of  that  they  contemplate. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  187 

CLIX. 

Then  pause,  and  be  enlighten'd ;  there  is  more 
In  such  a  survey  than  the  sating  gaze 
Of  wonder  pleased,  or  awe  which  would  adore 
The  worship  of  the  place,  or  the  mere  praise 
Of  art  and  its  great  masters,  who  could  raise 
What  former  time,  nor  skill,  nor  thought  could  plan  ; 
The  fountain  of  sublimity  displays 
Its  depth,  and  thence  may  draw  the  mind  of  man 
Its  golden  sands,  and  learn  what  great  conceptions 
can. 

CLX. 

Or,  turning  to  the  Vatican,  go  see 
Laocoon's  torture  dignifying  pain  — 
A  father's  love  and  mortal's  agony 
With  an  immortal's  patience  blending :  —  Vain 
The  struggle  ;  vain,  against  the  coiling  strain 
And  gripe,  and  deepening  of  the  dragon's  grasp. 
The  old  man's  clench ;  the  long  envenom'd  chain 
Rivets  the  living  links,  —  the  enormous  asp 
Enforces  pang  on  pang,  and  stifles  gasp  on  gasp.      ' 

CLXI. 

Or  view  the  Lord  of  the  unerring  bow, 
The  God  of  life,  and  poesy,  and  light  — 
The  Sun  in  human  limbs  array'd,  and  brow 
All  radiant  from  his  triumph  in  the  fight ; 
The  shaft  hath  just  been  shot  —  the  arrow  bright 
With  an  immortal's  vengeance ;  in  his  eye 
And  nostril  beautiful  disdain,  and  might 
And  majesty,  flash  their  full  lightnings  by, 
Developing  in  that  one  glance  the  Deity. 


188  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  iv. 

CLxn. 
But  in  his  delicate  form  —  a  dream  of  Love, 
Shaped  by  some  solitary  nymph,  whose  breast 
Long'd  for  a  deathless  lover  from  above. 
And  madden'd  in  that  vision  —  are  exprest 
All  that  ideal  beauty  ever  blest 
The  mind  with  in  its  most  unearthly  mood. 
When  each  conception  was  a  heavenly  guest  — 
A  ray  of  immortality  —  and  stood, 
Starlike,  around,  until  they  gather'd  to  a  god  ! 

CLXIII. 

And  if  it  be  Prometheus  stole  from  Heaven 
The  fire  which  we  endure,  it  was  repaid 
By  him  to  whom  the  energy  was  given 
Which  this  poetic  marble  hath  array'd 
With  an  eternal  glory  —  which,  if  made 
By  human  hands,  is  not  of  human  thought ; 
And  Time  himself  hath  hallow'd  it,  nor  laid 
One  ringlet  in  the  dust  —  nor  hath  it  caught 
A  tinge  of  years,  but  breathes  the  flame  with  which 
'twas  wrought. 

CLxrv. 
But  where  is  he,  the  Pilgrim  of  my  song. 
The  being  who  upheld  it  through  the  past? 
Methinks  he  cometh  late  and  tarries  long. 
He  is  no  more  —  these  breathings  are  his  last. 
His  wandering  done,  his  visions  ebbing  fast. 
And  he  himself  as  nothing:  —  if  he  was 
Aught  but  a  phantasy,  and  could  be  class'd 
With  forms  which  live  and  suffer  —  let  that  pass  — 
His  shadow  fades  away  into  Destruction's  mass. 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  1S9 

CLXV. 

Which  gathers  shadow,  substance,  life,  and  all 
That  we  inherit  in  its  mortal  shroud. 
And  spreads  the  dim  and  universal  pall 
Through  which  all  things  grow  phantoms ;  and  the 

cloud 
Between  us  sinks  and  all  which  ever  glow'd, 
Till  Glory's  self  is  twilight,  and  displays 
A  melancholy  halo  scarce  allow'd 
To  hover  on  the  verge  of  darkness ;  rays 
Sadder    than   saddest  night,  for  they  distract   the 

gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And  send  us  prying  into  the  abyss. 
To  gather  what  we  shall  be  when  the  frame 
Shall  be  resolved  to  something  less  than  this 
Its  wretched  essence ;  and  to  dream  of  fame. 
And  wipe  the  dust  from  off  the  idle  name 
We  never  more  shall  hear, —  but  never  more, 
Oh,  happier  thought !  can  we  be  made  the  same : 
It  is  enough  in  sooth  that  once  we  bore 
These  fardels  of  the  heart  —  the  heart  whose  sweat 
was  gore. 

CLXVII. 

Hark !  forth  from  the  abyss  a  voice  proceeds, 
A  long  low  distant  murmur  of  dread  sound, 
Such  as  arises  when  a  nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immedicable  wound  ; 
Through  storm  and  darkness  yawns  the  rending 

ground, 
The  gulf  is  thick  with  phantoms,  but  the  chief 
Seems  royal  still,  though  with  her  head  discrown'd. 


190  CHILD E  HAROLD'S         [canto  iv. 

And  pale,  but  lovely,  with  maternal  grief 
She  clasps  a  babe,  to  whom  her  breast  yields  no 
relief. 

CLXvm. 

Scion  of  chiefs  and  monarchs,  where  art  thou? 
Fond  hope  of  many  nations,  art  thou  dead? 
Could  not  the  giave  forget  thee,  and  lay  low 
Some  less  majestic,  less  beloved  head? 
In  the  sad  midnight,  while  thy  heart  still  bled, 
The  mother  of  a  moment,  o'er  thy  boy. 
Death  hush'd  that  pang  for  ever :  with  thee  fled 
The  present  happiness  and  promised  joy 
Which  fiU'd  the  imperial  isles  so  full  it  seem'd  to 
cloy. 

CLXIX. 

Peasants  bring  forth  in  safety.  —  Can  it  be. 
Oh  thou  that  wert  so  happy,  so  adored  ! 
Those  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for  thee. 
And  Freedom's  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease  to  hoard 
Her  many  griefs  for  One  ;  for  she  had  pour'd 
Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o'er  thy  head 
Beheld  her  Iris.  —  Thou,  too,  lonely  lord. 
And  desolate  consort  —  vainly  wert  thou  wed  ! 
The  husband  of  a  year !  the  father  of  the  dead ! 

CLXX. 

Of  sackcloth  was  thy  wedding  garment  made ; 
Thy  bridal's  fmit  is  ashes  :  in  the  dust 
The  fair-hair'd  Daughter  of  the  Isles  is  laid. 
The  love  of  millions  !  How  we  did  intrust 
Futurity  to  her !  and,  though  it  must 
Darken  above  our  bones,  yet  fondly  deem'd 
Our  children  should  obey  her  child,  and  blest 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  191 

Her  and  her  hoped-for  seed,  whose  promise  seem'd 
Like  stars  to  shepherds'  eyes :  —  'twas  but  a  meteor 
beam'd. 

CLXXI. 

Woe  unto  us,  not  her ;  **  for  she  sleeps  well : 
The  fickle  reek  of  popular  breath,  the  tongue 
Of  hollow  counsel,  the  false  oracle. 
Which  from  the  birth  of  monarchy  hath  rung 
Its  knell  in  princely  ears,  'till  the  o'erstung 
Nations  have  arm'd  in  madness,  the  strange  fate  ^^ 
Which  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns,  and  hath  flung 
Against  their  blind  omnipotence  a  weight 
Within  the  opposing  scale,  which  crushes  soon  or 
late, — 

CLXXII. 

These  might  have  been  her  destiny ;  but  no, 
Our  hearts  deny  it :  and  so  young,  so  fair. 
Good  without  effort,  great  without  a  foe ; 
But  now  a  bride  and  mother  —  and  now  there ! 
How  many  ties  did  that  stern  moment  tear ! 
From  thy  Sire's  to  his  humblest  subject's  breast 
Is  link'd  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair. 
Whose  shock  was  as  an  earthquake's,  and  opprest 
The  land  which  loved  thee  so  that  none  could  love 
thee  best. 

CLXXIII. 

Lo,  Nemi !  "  navell'd  in  the  woody  hills 
So  far,  that  the  uprooting  wind  which  tears 
The  oak  from  his  foundation,  and  which  spiUs 
The  ocean  o'er  its  boundary,  and  bears 
Its  foam  against  the  skies,  reluctant  spares 
The  oval  mirror  of  thy  glassy  lake  ; 
And,  calm  as  cherish'd  hate,  its  surface  wears 


192  CHILD E  HAROLD'S         [canto  iv. 

A  deep  cold  settled  aspect  naught  can  shake, 
All  coil'd  into  itself  and  round,  as  sleeps  the  snake. 

CLXXIV. 

And  near  Albano's  scarce  divided  waves 
Shine  from  a  sister  valley ;  —  and  afar 
The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latian  coast  where  sprang  the  Epic  war, 
"  Arms  and  the  Man,"  whose  re-ascending  star 
Rose  o'er  an  empire  :  — but  beneath  thy  right 
TuUy  reposed  from  Rome ;  —  and  where  yon  bar 
Of  girdling  mountains  intercepts  the  sight 
The   Sabine  farm  was   till'd,  the  weary  bard's   de- 
light.« 

CLXXV. 

But  I  forget.  —  My  Pilgrim's  shrine  is  won, 
And  he  and  I  must  part,  — so  let  it  be,  — 
His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done ; 
Yet  once  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea  ; 
The  midland  ocean  breaks  on  him  and  me. 
And  from  the  Alban  Mount  we  now  behold 
Our  friend  of  youth,  that  ocean,  which  when  we 
Beheld  it  last  by  Calpe's  rock  unfold 
Those  waves,  we  foUow'd  on  till  the  dark  Euxine 
roll'd 

CLXXVI. 

Upon  the  blue  Symplegades  :  long  years — 
Long,  though  not  very  many,  since  have  done 
Their  work  on  both  ;  some  suffering  and  some  tears 
Have  left  us  nearly  where  we  had  begun  : 
Yet  not  in  vain  our  mortal  race  hath  run. 
We  have  had  our  reward  —  and  it  is  here ; 
That  we  can  yet  feel  gladden'd  by  the  sun, 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  193 

And  reap  from  earth,  sea,  joy  almost  as  dear 
As  if  there  were  no  man  to  trouble  what  is  clear. 

CLxxvir. 

Oh  !  that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling-place, 
With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  minister, 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race, 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her ! 
Ye  elements  !  —  in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted  —  Can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  being?     Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be  our  lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods. 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore. 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes. 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar : 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more. 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  can  not  all  conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean  —  roll! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore ;  — upon  the  watery  plain 
Tlie  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own. 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 


194  CHILDE  HAROLD'S         [canto  iv. 

He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknelPd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown. 

CLXXX. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths,  —  thy  fields 

Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,  —  thou  dost  arise 

And  shake  him  from  thee ;    the  vile  strength  h& 

wields 
•  For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies. 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth :  —  there  let  him  lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake. 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war ; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake. 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

CLXXXII. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee  — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they?*^ 
Thy  waters  washed  them  power  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage  ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts  :  —  not  so  thou, 


CANTO  IV.]  PILGRIMAGE.  1 95 

Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play  — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow  — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

CLXXXIII. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests ;  in  all  time. 
Calm  or  convulsed  —  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark -heaving ;  —  boundless,    endless,    and    sub- 
lime— 
The  image  of  Eternity  —  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made  ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee  ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone 

CLXXXIV. 

And  I  have  loved  thee.  Ocean  !  "  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  :  from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror  —  'twas  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I  do  here. 

CLXXXV. 

My  task  is  done^ — my  song  hath  ceased  —  my 

theme 
Has  died  into  an  echo ;  it  is  fit 
The  spell  should  break  of  this  protracted  dream. 
The  torch  shall  be  extinguish'd  which  hath  lit 


196  CHILDE  HAROLD.  [canto  iv. 

My  midnight  lamp  —  and  what  is  writ,  is  writ,  — 
Would  it  were  worthier !  but  I  am  not  now 
That  which  I  have  been  —  and  my  visions  flit 
Less  palpably  before  me —  and  the  glow 
Which  in  my  spirit  dwelt  is  fluttering,  faint,  and  low. 

CLXXXVI. 

Farewell !  a  word  that  must  be,  and  hath  been  — 
A  sound  which  makes  us  linger ;  —  yet  —  farewell ! 
Ye  !  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal-shoon,  and  scallop-shell ; 
Farewell !  with  him  alone  may  rest  the  pain. 
If  such  there   were  —  with  you^  the   moral  of  his 
strain! 


APPENDIX. 


APPENDIX. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  I. 

Note  i,  p.  5, 

"  Yet  I  sigVd  o'er  Delphi's  long  deserted  shrine" 

The  little  village  of  Castri  stands  partly  on  the  site  of 
Delphi.  Along  the  path  of  the  mountain,  from  Chrysso, 
are  the  remains  of  sepulchres  hewn  in  and  from  the  rock. 
"One,"  said  the  guide,  "of  a  king  who  broke  his  neck 
hunting."  His  majesty  had  certainly  chosen  the  fittest 
spot  for  such  an  achievement.  A  little  above  Castri  is  a 
cave,  supposed  the  Pythian,  of  immense  depth ;  the  upper 
part  of  it  is  paved,  and  now  a  cow-house.  On  the  other 
side  of  Castri  stands  a  Greek  monastery;  some  way  above 
which  is  the  cleft  in  the  rock,  with  a  range  of  caverns 
difficult  of  ascent,  and  apparently  leading  to  the  interior 
of  the  mountain;  probably  to  the  Corycian  Cavern  men- 
tioned by  Pausanias.  From  this  part  descend  the  fountain 
and  the  "Dews  of  Castalie."  —  ["We  were  sprinkled," 
says  Mr.  Hobhouse,  "with  the  spray  of  the  immortal  rill, 
and  here,  if  anywhere,  should  have  felt  the  poetic  inspi- 
ration: we  drank  deep,  too,  of  the  spring;  but — (I  can 
answer  for  myself)  —  without  feeling  sensible  of  any  ex- 
traordinary effect. "  —  E.  ] 

Note  2,  p.  7. 

"/4  nd  e^en  /or  change  of  scene  would  seek  the  shades  below." 

[In   these   stanzas,  and  indeed  throughout  his  works, 
we  must  not  accept  too  literally  Lord  Byron's  testimony 
199 


200  APPENDIX. 

against  himself  —  he  took  a  morbid  pleasure  in  darken- 
ing every  shadow  of  his  self-portraiture.  His  interior  at 
Newstead  had,  no  doubt,  been,  in  some  points,  loose  and 
irregular  enough;  but  it  certainly  never  exhibited  any- 
thing of  the  profuse  and  Sultanic  luxury  which  the  lan- 
guage in  the  text  might  seem  to  indicate.  In  fact,  the 
narrowness  of  his  means  at  the  time  the  verses  refer  to 
would  alone  have  precluded  this.  His  household  econ- 
omy, while  he  remained  at  the  Abbey,  is  known  to  have 
been  conducted  on  a  very  moderate  scale;  and,  besides, 
his  usual  companions,  though  far  from  being  averse  to 
convivial  indulgences,  were  not  only,  as  Mr.  Moore  says, 
"of  habits  and  tastes  too  intellectual  for  mere  vulgar 
debauchery,"  but,  assuredly,  quite  incapable  of  playing 
the  parts  of  flatterers  and  parasites.  —  E.] 

NOTH  3,  p.  10. 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  pagt  I " 

[This  "  little  page  "  was  Robert  Rushton,  the  son  of  one 
of  Lord  Byron's  tenants.  "  I  take  Robert  with  me,"  says 
the  poet,  in  a  letter  to  his  mother;  "  I  like  him,  because, 
like  myself,  he  seems  a  friendless  animal."  —  E.] 

Note  4,  p.  10. 

"  Vet  marvel  not.  Sir  Childe,  that  I 
A  m  sorrowful  in  mind. " 

[Seeing  that  the  boy  was  "sorrowful"  at  the  separa- 
tion from  his  parents,  Lord  Byron,  on  reaching  Gibraltar, 
sent  him  back  to  England  under  the  care  of  his  old  ser- 
vant Murray.  "Pray,"  he  says  to  his  mother,  "shew 
the  lad  every  kindness,  as  he  has  behaved  extremely  well, 
and  is  a  great  favorite."  He  also  wrote  a  letter  to  the 
father  of  the  boy,  which  leaves  a  most  favorable  impres- 


APPENDIX.  201 

sion  of  his  thoughtfulness  and  kindliness.  "I  have,"  he 
says,  "  sent  Robert  home,  because  the  country  which  I  am 
about  to  travel  through  is  in  a  state  which  renders  it  unsafe, 
particularly  for  one  so  young.  I  allow  you  to  deduct  from 
your  rent  five  and  twenty  pounds  a  year  for  the  expense  of 
his  education,  for  three  years,  provided  I  do  not  return 
before  that  time,  and  I  desire  he  may  be  considered  as  in 
my  service. "  —  E.  ] 

Note  5,  p.  11. 

" '  Come  hither.,  hither,  my  staunch  yeoman.''  " 

[William  Fletcher,  the  faithful  valet; — who,  after  a 
service  of  twenty  years,  ("during  which,"  he  says,  "his 
Lord  was  more  to  him  than  a  father,")  received  the 
Pi/grini's  last  words  at  Missolonghi,  and  did  not  quit 
his  remains,  until  he  had  seen  them  deposited  in  the 
family  vault  at  Hucknell.  This  unsophisticated  "  yeo- 
man" was  a  constant  source  of  pleasantry  to  his  master: 
—  e.g.  "Fletcher,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  his  mother, 
"is  not  valiant:  he  requires  comforts  that  I  can  dispense 
with,  and  sighs  for  beer,  and  beef,  and  tea,  and  his  wife, 
and  the  devil  knows  what  besides.  We  were  one  night 
lost  in  a  thunder-storm,  and  since,  nearly  wrecked.  In 
both  cases  he  was  sorely  bewildered;  from  apprehensions 
of  famine  and  banditti  in  the  first,  and  drowning  in  the 
second  instance.  His  eyes  were  a  little  hurt  by  the  light- 
ning, or  crying,  I  don't  know  which.  I  did  what  I  could 
to  console  him,  but  found  him  incorrigible.  He  sends  six 
sighs  to  Sally.  I  shall  settle  him  in  a  farm;  for  he  has 
served  me  faithfully,  and  Sally  is  a  good  woman."  After 
all  his  adventures  by  flood  and  field,  short  commons  in- 
cluded, this  humble  Achates  of  the  poet  has  now  estab- 
lished himself  as  the  keeper  of  an  Italian  warehouse,  in 


a02  APPENDIX. 

Charles  Street,  Berkeley  Square,  where,  if  he  does  not 
thrive,  every  one  who  knows  anything  of  his  character 
will  say  he  deserves  to  do  so.  —  E.] 

Note  6,  p.  14. 

"Lo !  CintrJ s glorioui  Eden  inttrvtnti." 

["To  make  amends  for  the  filthiness  of  Lisbon,  and  its 
still  filthier  inhabitants,  the  village  of  Cintra,  about  fifteen 
miles  from  the  capital,  is,  perhaps,  in  every  respect,  the 
most  delightful  in  Europe.  It  contains  beauties  of  every 
description,  natural  and  artificial:  palaces  and  gardens 
rising  in  the  midst  of  rocks,  cataracts,  and  precipices; 
convents  on  stupendous  heights;  a  distant  view  of  the  sea 
and  the  Tagus:  and  besides  (though  that  is  a  secondary 
consideration),  is  remarkable  as  the  scene  of  Sir  Hew 
Dalrymple's  convention.  It  unites  in  itself  all  the  wild- 
ness  of  the  western  Highlands,  with  the  verdure  of  the 
south  of  France."  — B.  to  Mrs.  Byron,  1809.  —  E.] 

Note  7,  p.  15. 

"^  nd  rest  ye  at '  Our  Lady's  house  of  woe. ' " 

The  convent  of  "Our  Lady  of  Punishment,"  Nossa 
Senora  de  Pena,  on  the  summit  of  the  rock.  Below,  at 
some  distance,  is  the  Cork  Convent,  where  St.  Honorius 
dug  his  den,  over  which  is  his  epitaph.  From  the  hills, 
the  sea  adds  to  the  beauty  of  the  view.  —  [Since  the  pub- 
lication of  this  poem,  I  have  been  informed  of  the  misap- 
prehension of  the  term  Nossa  Senora  de  Pena.  It  was 
owing  to  the  want  of  the  tilde,  or  mark  over  the  «,  which 
alters  the  signification  of  the  word:  with  it,  Pena  signifies 
a  rock;  without  it,  Pena  has  the  sense  I  adopted.  I  do 
not  think  it  necessary  to  alter  the  passage;  as,  though  the 
common  acceptation  affixed  to  it  is  "Our  Lady  of  the 


APPENDIX.  203 

Rock,"  I  may  well  assume  the  other  sense  from  the  severi- 
ties practised  there.  — Note  to  sd  Edition. '\ 

Note  8,  p.  15. 

"Throuf;kotU  this  purple  land,  where  law  secures  not  life.'''' 

It  is  a  well-known  fact,  that  in  the  year  1809,  the 
assassinations  in  the  streets  of  Lisbon  and  its  vicinity 
were  not  confined  by  the  Portuguese  to  their  countrymen; 
but  that  Englishmen  were  daily  butchered:  and  so  far 
from  redress  being  obtained,  we  were  requested  not  to 
interfere  if  we  perceived  any  compatriot  defending  him- 
self against  his  allies.  I  was  once  stopped  in  the  way  to 
the  theatre  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when  the  streets 
were  not  more  empty  than  they  generally  are  at  that  hour, 
opposite  to  an  open  shop,  and  in  a  carriage  with  a  friend: 
had  we  not  fortunately  been  armed,  I  have  not  the  least 
doubt  that  we  should  have  "  adorned  a  tale  "  instead  of 
telling  one.  The  crime  of  assassination  is  not  confined  to 
Portugal :  in  Sicily  and  Malta  we  are  knocked  on  the  head 
at  a  handsome  average  nightly,  and  not  a  Sicilian  or  Mal- 
tese is  ever  punished ! 

Note  9,  p.  15. 

"  There  thou  too,  Vathek  I  England'' s  wealthiest  son." 

['*  Vathek  "  (says  Lord  Byron,  in  one  of  his  diaries,) 
"  was  one  of  the  tales  I  had  a  very  early  admiration  of. 
For  correctness  of  costume,  beauty  of  description,  and 
power  of  imagination,  it  far  surpasses  all  European  imi- 
tations; and  bears  such  marks  of  originality,  that  those 
who  have  visited  the  East  will  find  some  difficulty  in 
believing  it  to  be  more  than  a  translation.  As  an  eastern 
tale,  even  Rasselas  must  bow  before  it :  his  '  happy  valley  ' 
will  not  bear  a  comparison  with  the  'Hall  of  Eblis.'  " 


204  APPENDIX. 

—  William  Beckford,  Esq.,  son  of  the  once-celebrated 
alderman,  and  heir  to  his  enormous  wealth,  published, 
at  the  early  age  of  eighteen,  "  Memoirs  of  Extraordinary 
Painters;"  and  in  the  year  after,  the  romance  thus  eulo- 
gized. After  sitting  for  Hindon  in  several  Parliaments, 
this  gifted  person  was  induced  to  fix,  for  a  time,  his  resi- 
dence in  Portugal,  where  the  memory  of  his  magnificence 
was  fresh  at  the  period  of  Lord  Byron's  pilgrimage. 
Returning  to  England,  he  realized  all  the  outward  shows 
of  Gothic  grandeur  in  his  unsubstantial  pageant  of  Font- 
hill  Abbey;  and  has  more  recently  been  indulging  his 
fancy  with  another,  probably  not  more  lasting,  monu- 
ment of  architectural  caprice,  in  the  vicinity  of  Bath.  It 
is  much  to  be  regretted,  that,  after  a  lapse  of  fifty  years, 
Mr.  Beckford's  literary  reputation"  should  continue  to  rest 
entirely  on  his  juvenile,  however  remarkable,  perform- 
ances. It  is  said,  however,  that  he  has  prepared  several 
works  for  posthumous  publication.  —  E.] 

Note  lo,  p.  i6. 

"Behold  the  hall  where  chiefs  were  late  convened ! " 

The  Convention  of  Cintra  was  signed  in  the  palace  of 
the  Marchese  Marialva. —  ["The  armistice,  the  negotia- 
tions, the  convention  itself,  and  the  execution  of  its  pro- 
visions, were  all  commenced,  conducted,  and  concluded, 
at  the  distance  of  thirty  miles  from  Cintra,  with  which 
place  they  had  not  the  slightest  connection,  political,  mili- 
tary, or  local;  yet  Lord  Byron  has  gravely  asserted,  in 
prose  and  verse,  that  the  convention  was  signed  at  the  Mar- 
quis of  Marialva's  house  at  Cintra;  and  the  author  of  'The 
Diary  of  an  Invalid,'  improving  upon  the  poet's  discovery, 
detected  the  stains  of  the  ink  spilt  by  Junot  upon  the  occa- 
sion."— Coi.  Napier^ s^'' History  of  the  Peninsular  PVar."] 


APPENDIX.  205 

Note  ii,  p.  17. 

"To  horse  I  to  horse  I  he  quits,  forever  quits. " 

["After  remaining  ten  days  in  Lisbon,  we  sent  oui 
baggage  and  part  of  our  servants  by  sea  to  Gibraltar, 
and  travelled  on  horseback  to  Seville;  a  distance  of  nearly 
four  hundred  miles.  The  horses  are  excellent:  we  rode 
seventy  miles  a-day.  Eggs  and  wine,  and  hard  beds,  are 
all  the  accommodation  we  found,  and,  in  such  torrid 
weather,  quite  enough." — B.  Letters,   1809.  —  E.] 

Note  12,  p.  18. 

"Where  dwelt  0/ yore  the  Lusians'  luckless  queen." 

'*  Her  luckless  Majesty  went  subsequently  mad;  and 
Dr.  Willis,  who  so  dexterously  cudgelled  kingly  peri- 
craniums,  could  make  nothing  of  hers."  —  Byron  MS. 
l^The  Queen  labored  under  a  melancholy  kind  of  derange- 
ment, from  which  she  never  recovered.  She  died  at  the 
Brazils,  in  1816.  —  E.] 

Note  13,  p.  18. 

"But  here  the  Babylonian  "whore  hath  built 
A  dome,  where  flaunts  she  in  such  glorious  sheen." 

The  extent  of  Mafra  is  prodigious :  it  contains  a  palace, 
convent,  and  most  superb  church.  The  six  organs  are  the 
most  beautiful  I  ever  beheld  in  point  of  decoration:  we 
did  not  hear  them,  but  were  told  that  their  tones  were 
correspondent  to  their  splendor.  Mafra  is  termed  the 
Escurial  of  Portugal.  ["About  ten  miles  to  the  right 
of  Cintra,"  says  Lord  Byron,  in  a  letter  to  his  mother, 
"  is  the  palace  of  Mafra,  the  boast  of  Portugal,  as  it 
might  be  of  any  country,  in  point  of  magnificence,  with- 
out elegance.  There  is  a  convent  annexed:  the  monks, 
who  possess  large  revenues,  are  courteous  enough,  and 


2o6  APPENDIX. 

understand  Latin;  so  that  we  had  a  long  conversation. 
They  have  a  large  library,  and  asked  me  if  the  English 
had  any  books  in  their  country."  —  Mafra  was  erected  by 
John  v.,  in  pursuance  of  a  vow,  made  in  a  dangerous  fit 
of  illness,  to  found  a  convent  for  the  use  of  the  poorest 
friary  in  the  kingdom.  Upon  inquiry,  this  poorest  was 
found  at  Mafra;  where  twelve  Franciscans  lived  together 
in  a  hut.  There  is  a  magnificent  view  of  the  existing 
edifice  in  "Finden's  Illustrations."  —  E.] 

Note  14,  p.  19. 
"  ^Twixt  him  and  Litsian  slave,  the  lowest  of  the  low." 

As  I  found  the  Portuguese,  so  I  have  characterized  them. 
That  they  are  since  improved,  at  least  in  courage,  is  evi- 
dent. The  late  exploits  of  Lord  Wellington  have  effaced 
the  follies  of  Cintra.  He  has,  indeed,  done  wonders :  he 
has,  perhaps,  changed  the  character  of  a  nation,  recon- 
ciled rival  superstitions,  and  baffled  an  enemy  who  never 
retreated  before  his  predecessors.  —  181 2. 

Note  15,  p.  19. 
"So  noted  ancient  roundelays  among." 

Lord  Byron  seems  to  have  thus  early  acquired  enough 
of  Spanish  to  understand  and  appreciate  the  grand  body 
of  ancient  popular  poetry,  —  unequalled  in  Europe,  — 
which  must  ever  form  the  pride  of  that  magnificent  lan- 
guage. 

Note  16,  p.  20. 
"  That  dyed  thy  mountain  streams  with  Gothic  gore  f  " 

Count  Julian's  daughter,  the  Helen  of  Spain.  Pelagius 
preserved  his  independence  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  Astu- 
rias,  and  the  descendants  of  his  followers,  after  some 
centuries,   completed   their   struggle  by  the   conquest  of 


APPENDIX.  207 

Grenada. —  ["Almost  all  the  Spanish  historians,  as  well 
as  the  voice  of  tradition,  ascribe  the  invasion  of  the  Moors 
to  the  forcible  violation  by  Roderick  of  Florinda,  called 
by  the  Moors  Caba,  or  Cava.  She  was  the  daughter  of 
Count  Julian,  one  of  the  Gothic  monarch's  principal  lieu- 
tenants, who,  when  the  crime  was  perpetrated,  was  engaged 
in  the  defence  of  Ceuta  against  the  Moors.  In  his  indig- 
nation at  the  ingratitude  of  his  sovereign,  and  the  dis- 
honor of  his  daughter.  Count  Julian  forgot  the  duties  of 
a  Christian  and  a  patriot,  and,  forming  an  alliance  with 
Musa,  then  the  Caliph's  lieutenant  in  Africa,  he  counte- 
nanced the  invasion  of  Spain  by  a  body  of  Saracens  and 
Africans,  commanded  by  the  celebrated  Tarik;  the  issue 
of  which  was  the  defeat  and  death  of  Roderick,  and  the 
occupation  of  almost  the  whole  peninsula  by  the  Moors. 
The  Spaniards,  in  detestation  of  Florinda's  memory,  are 
said  by  Cervantes  never  to  bestow  that  name  upon  any 
human  female,  reserving  it  especially  for  their  dogs."  — 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  ] 

Note  17,  p.  21. 
"  To  shed  before  his  shrine  the  blood  he  deems  most  sweet." 

["A  bolder  prosopopoeia,"  says  a  nameless  critic,  "or 
one  better  imagined  or  expressed,  cannot  easily  be  found 
in  the  whole  range  of  ancient  and  modern  poetry.  Unlike 
the  'plume  of  Horror,'  or  the  'eagle-winged  Victory,' 
described  by  our  great  epic  poet,  this  gigantic  figure  is  a 
distinct  object,  perfect  in  lineaments,  tremendous  in  opera- 
tion, and  vested  with  all  the  attributes  calculated  to  excite 
terror  and  admiration."] 

Note  18,  p.  22. 
"A  nd fertilize  the  field  that  each  pretends  to  gain." 

[We  think  it  right  to  restore  here  a  note  which  Lord 


2o8  APPENDIX. 

Byron  himself  suppressed  with  reluctance,  at  the  urgent 
request  of  a  friend.  It  alludes,  inter  alia,  to  the  then 
recent  publication  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  Vision  of  Don 
Roderick,  of  which  work  the  profits  had  been  handsomely 
given  to  the  cause  of  Portuguese  patriotism: —  •'  We  have 
heard  wonders  of  the  Portuguese  lately,  and  their  gallan- 
try. Pray  Heaven  it  continue;  yet  'would  it  were  bed- 
time, Hal,  and  all  were  well ! '  They  must  fight  a  great 
many  hours,  by  '  Shrewsbury  clock,'  before  the  number  of 
their  slain  equals  that  of  our  countrymen  butchered  by 
these  kind  creatures,  now  metamorphosed  into  '  ca9adores,' 
and  what  not.  I  merely  state  a  fact,  not  confined  to  Por- 
tugal; for  in  Sicily  and  Malta  we  are  knocked  on  the  head 
at  a  handsome  average  nightly,  and  not  a  Sicilian  and 
Maltese  is  ever  punished !  The  neglect  of  protection  is 
disgraceful  to  our  government  and  governors;  for  the  mur- 
ders are  as  notorious  as  the  moon  that  shines  upon  them, 
and  the  apathy  that  overlooks  them.  The  Portuguese,  it 
is  to  be  hoped,  are  complimented  with  the  '  Forlorn  Hope,' 
—  if  the  cowards  are  become  brave  (like  the  rest  of  their 
kind,  in  a  corner),  pray  let  them  display  it.  But  there  is 
a  subscription  for  these  ^  ii^aav-inXat,''  (they  need  not  be 
ashamed  of  the  epithet  once  applied  to  the  Spartans); 
and  all  the  charitable  patronymics,  from  ostentatious  A. 
to  diffident  Z.,  and  £,\:  i :  o  from  'An  Admirer  of  Valor,' 
are  in  requisition  for  the  lists  at  Lloyd's,  and  the  honor 
of  British  benevolence.  Well !  we  have  fought,  and  sub- 
scribed, and  bestowed  peerages,  and  buried  the  killed  by 
our  friends  and  foes;  and,  lo !  all  this  is  to  be  done  over 
again !  Like  Lien  Chi  (in  Goldsmith's  Citizen  of  the 
World),  as  we  'grow  older,  we  grow  never  the  better.' 
It  would  be  pleasant  to  learn  who  will  subscribe  for  us,  in 
or  about  the  year  1815,  and  what  nation  will  send  fifty 
thousand  men,  first  to  be  decimated  in  the  capital,  and 


APPENDIX.  209 

then  decimated  again  (in  the  Irish  fashion,  nine  out  of 
ten),  in  the  '  bed  of  honor;'  which,  as  Sergeant  Kite  says, 
is  considerably  larger  and  more  commodious  than  '  the 
bed  of  Ware.'  Then  they  must  have  a  poet  to  write  the 
'  Vision  of  Don  Perceval,'  and  generously  bestow  the  profits 
of  the  well  and  widely  printed  quarto,  to  rebuild  the  '  Back- 
wynd'  and  the  'Canongate,'  or  furnish  new  kilts  for  the 
half-roasted  Highlanders.  Lord  Wellington,  however,  has 
enacted  marvels;  and  so  did  his  Oriental  brother,  whom  I 
saw  charioteering  over  the  French  flag,  and  heard  clipping 
bad  Spanish,  after  listening  to  the  speech  of  a  patriotic 
cobbler  of  Cadiz,  on  the  event  of  his  own  entry  into  that 
city,  and  the  exit  of  some  five  thousand  bold  Britons  out 
of  this  'best  of  all  possible  worlds.'  Sorely  were  we 
puzzled  how  to  dispose  of  that  same  victory  of  Talavera; 
and  a  victory  it  surely  was  somewhere,  for  everybody 
claimed  it.  The  Spanish  despatch  and  mob  called  it 
Cuesta's,  and  made  no  great  mention  of  the  Viscount; 
the  French  called  it  theirs  (to  my  great  discomfiture, — 
for  a  French  consul  stopped  my  mouth  in  Greece  with  a 
pestilent  Paris  gazette,  just  as  I  had  killed  Sebastiani  '  in 
buckram,'  and  King  Joseph,  'in  Kendal  green'), — and 
we  have  not  yet  determined  what  to  call  it,  or  whose;  for, 
certes,  it  was  none  of  our  own.  Howbeit,  Massena's 
retreat  is  a  great  comfort;  anfl  as  we  have  not  been  in  the 
habit  of  pursuing  for  some  years  ^st,  no  wonder  we  are 
a  little  awkward  at  first.  No  doubt  we  shall  improve;  or, 
if  not,  we  have  only  to  take  to  our  old  way  of  retrc^ad- 
ing,  and  there  we  are  at  home."  —  E.] 

Note  19,  p.  23. 

"  Where  frroud  Sevilla  triumphs  unsubdued" 
["At  Seville,  we  lodged  in  the  house  of  two  Spanish 


2IO  APPENDIX. 

unmarried  ladies,  women  of  character,  the  eldest  a  fine 
woman,  the  youngest  pretty.  The  freedom  of  manner, 
which  is  general  here,  astonished  me  not  a  little;  and,  in 
the  course  of  further  observation,  I  find  that  reserve  is  not 
the  characteristic  of  Spanish  belles.  The  eldest  honored 
your  unworthy  son  with  very  particular  attention,  embra- 
cing him  with  great  tenderness  at  parting  (I  was  there  but 
three  days),  after  cutting  off  a  lock  of  his  hair,  and  pre- 
senting him  with  one  of  her  own,  about  three  feet  in 
length,  which  I  send  you,  and  beg  you  will  retain  till  my 
return.  Her  last  words  were,  '  Adios,  tu  hermoso,  me 
gusto  mucho ! '  '  Adieu,  you  pretty  fellow,  you  please  me 
much ! '"  —  Lord  B.  to  his  Mother,  Aug.,  1809.] 

Note  20,  p.  23. 

"Nor  here  War's  clarion,  but  Love's  rebeck  sounds.^* 

[A  kind  of   fiddle,  with   only  two  strings,  played  on 

by  a  bow,  said  to  have  been  brought  by  the  Moors  into 

Spain.  —  E.  ] 

Note  21,  p.  24. 

"No  !  as  he  speeds,  he  chants,  '  VivS.  *l  Rey  t '  " 

•  "Viva  el  Rey  Fernando!"  Long  live  King  Ferdi- 
nand !  is  the  chorus  of  most  of  the  Spanish  patriotic  songs. 
They  are  chiefly  in  dispraise  .of  the  old  king  Charles,  the 
Queen,  and  the  Prince  of  Peace.  I  have  heard  many  of 
them :  some  of  the  airs  are  beautiful.  Don  Manuel  Godoy, 
the  Principe  de  la  Paz,  of  an  ancient  but  decayed  family, 
was  born  at  Badajoz,  on  the  frontiers  of  Portugal,  and  was 
originally  in  the  ranks  of  the  Spanish  guards;  till  his  per- 
son attracted  the  queen's  eyes,  and  raised  him  to  the 
dukedom  of  Alcudia,  etc.  It  is  to  this  man  that  the 
Spaniards  universally  impute  the  ruin  of  their  country.  — 
[See,  for  ample  particulars  concerning  the  flagitious  court 


APPENDIX.  2 1 1 

of  Charles  IV.,   Southey's  "  History  of   the  Peninsular 
War,"  vol.  i.  — E.] 

Note  22,  p.  25. 
"Which  tells  yoH  whom  to  shun  and  whom  to  grett." 
The  red  cockade,  with  "  Fernando  VII."  in  the  centre. 

Note  23,  p.  25. 

"Tht  ball-piled ^amid,  the  ever-blazing  match." 

All  who  have  seen  a  battery  will  recollect  the  pyramidal 
form  in  which  shot  and  shells  are  piled.  The  Sierra 
Morena  was  fortified  in  every  defile  through  which  I 
passed  in  my  way  to  Seville. 

Note  24,  p.  27. 

"FotTdby  a  woman's  hand,  be/ore  a  batter' d  wall  f  " 

Such  were  the  exploits  of  the  Maid  of  Saragoza,  who 
by  her  valor  elevated  herself  to  the  highest  rank  of  hero- 
ines. When  the  author  was  at  Seville  she  walked  daily 
on  the  Prado,  decorated  with  medals  and  orders,  by  com- 
mand of  the  Junta.  —  [The  exploits  of  Augustina,  the 
famous  heroine  of  both  the  sieges  of  Saragoza,  are  re- 
corded at  length  in  one  of  the  most  splendid  chapters  of 
Southey's  "  History  of  the  Peninsular  War."  At  the  time 
when  she  first  attracted  notice,  by  mounting  a  battery 
where  her  lover  had  fallen,  and  working  a  gun  in  his 
room,  she  was  in  her  twenty-second  year,  exceedingly 
pretty,  and  in  a  soft  feminine  style  of  beauty.  She  has 
further  had  the  honor  to  be  painted  by  Wilkie,  and 
alluded  to  in  Wordsworth's  Dissertation  on  the  Conven- 
tion (misnamed)  of  Cintra;  where  a  noble  passage  con- 
cludes in  these  words: — "Saragoza  has  exemplified  a 
melancholy,  yea,  a  dismal  truth, — yet  consolatory  and 


212  APPENDIX. 

full  of  joy,  —  that  when  a  people  are  called  suddenly  to 
fight  for  their  liberty,  and  are  sorely  pressed  upon,  their 
best  field  of  battle  is  the  floors  upon  which  their  children 
have  played;  the  chambers  where  the  family  of  each  man 
has  slept;  upon  or  under  the  roofs  by  which  they  have 
been  sheltered;  in  the  gardens  of  their  recreation;  in  the 
street,  or  in  the  market-place;  before  the  altars  of  their 
temples,  and  among  their  congregated  dwellings,  blazing 
or  uprooted."  —  E.] 

NoTH  25,  p.  27. 
"Denotes  haw  soft  that  chin  which  heart  his  toHch." 

'*  Sigilla  in  mento  impressa  Amoris  digitulo 

Vestigio  demonstrant  mollitudinem." 

AuL.  Gel. 
Note  26,  p.  28. 

"  JViih  Spain's  dark-glancing  daughters  —  deign  to  knom." 

["Long  black  hair,  dark  languishing  eyes,  clear  olive 
complexions,  and  forms  more  graceful  in  motion  than  can 
be  conceived  by  an  Englishman,  used  to  the  drowsy,  list- 
less air  of  his  countrywomen,  added  to  the  most  becoming 
dress,  and,  at  the  same  time,  the  most  decent  in  the  world, 
render  a  Spanish  beauty  irresistible."  —  B.  to  his  Mother, 
Aug.,  1809.] 

Note  27,  p.  28. 

"Ok,  thou  Parnassus  I  whom  I  new  survey.^ 

These  stanzas  were  written  in  Castri  (Delphos),  at  the 
foot  of  Parnassus,  now  called  Aiaxv^a  (Liakura),  Dec., 
1809. 

Note  28,  p.  28. 

"In  silent  joy  to  think  at  last  I  look  on  Thee  I " 

"Upon  Parnassus,  going  to  the  fountain  of  Delphi 
(Castri),  in  1809,  I  saw  a  flight  of  twelve  eagles  (Hob- 


APPENDIX.  213 

house  says  they  were  vultures  —  at  least  In  conversation), 
and  I  seized  the  omen.  On  the  day  before,  I  composed  the 
lines  to  Parnassus  (in  Childe  Harold),  and  on  beholding 
the  birds,  had  a  hope  that  Apollo  had  accepted  my  hom- 
age. I  have  at  least  had  the  name  and  fame  of  a  poet, 
during  the  poetical  period  of  life  (from  twenty  to  thirty); 
—  whether  it  will  last  is  another  matter :  but  I  have  been 
a  votary  of  the  deity  and  the  place,  and  am  grateful  for 
what  he  has  done  in  my  behalf,  leaving  the  future  in  his 
hands,  as  I  left  the  past." — B.  Diary,  1821.] 

Note  29,  p.  29. 

" And  thou,  the  Muses'  seat,  art  now  their  grave." 

["Casting  the  eye  over  the  site  of  ancient  Delphi,  one 
cannot  possibly  imagine  what  has  become  of  the  walls  of 
the  numerous  buildings  which  are  mentioned  in  the  history 
of  its  former  magnificence,  —  buildings  which  covered  two 
miles  of  ground.  With  the  exception  of  the  few  terraces 
or  supporting  walls,  nothing  now  appears.  The  various 
robberies  by  Scylla,  Nero,  and  Constantine,  are  incon- 
siderable; for  the  removal  of  the  statues  of  bronze,  and 
marble,  and  ivory,  could  not  greatly  affect  the  general 
appearance  of  the  city.  The  acclivity  of  the  hill,  and  the 
foundations  being  placed  on  rock,  without  cement,  would 
no  doubt  render  them  comparatively  easy  to  be  removed 
or  hurled  down  into  the  vale  below;  but  the  vale  exhibits 
no  appearance  of  accumulation  of  hewn  stones;  and  the 
modern  village  could  have  consumed  but  few.  In  the 
course  of  so  many  centuries,  the  dibris  from  the  moun- 
tain must  have  covered  up  a  great  deal,  and  even  the 
rubbish  itself  may  have  acquired  a  soil  sufficient  to  con- 
ceal many  noble  remains  from  the  light  of  day.  Yet  we 
see  no  swellings  or  risings  in  the  ground,  indicating  the 


214  APPENDIX. 

graves  of  the  temples.  All  therefore  is  mystery,  and  the 
Greeks  may  truly  say,  '  Where  stood  the  walls  of  our 
fathers?  scarce  their  mossy  tombs  remain!" — H.  W. 
Williams's  "Travels  in  Greece,"  vol.  ii.  p.  254.] 

Note  30,  p.  30. 

"Her  strength,  her  •wealth,  her  site  0/ ancient  days." 

Seville  was  the  Hispalis  of  the  Romans. 

Note  31,  p.  30. 

"A  thousand  altars  rise,  for  ever  blazing  bright." 

["  Cadiz,  sweet  Cadiz!  — it  is  the  first  spot  in  the  crea- 
tion. The  beauty  of  its  streets  and  mansions  is  only 
excelled  by  the  liveliness  of  its  inhabitants.  It  is  a  com- 
plete Cythera,  full  of  the  finest  women  in  Spain;  the  Cadiz 
belles  being  the  Lancashire  witches  of  their  land."  Lord 
B.  to  his  Mother.     1809.  —  E.  ] 

Note  32,  p.  31. 

"Provoking  envious  gibe  from  each  pedestrian  churl" 

["In  thus  mixing  up  the  light  with  the  solemn,  it  was 
the  intention  of  the  poet  to  imitate  Ariosto.  But  it  is  far 
easier  to  rise,  with  grace,  from  the  level  of  a  strain  gen- 
erally familiar,  into  an  occasional  short  burst  of  pathos  or 
splendor,  than  to  interrupt  thus  a  prolonged  tone  of  solem- 
nity by  any  descent  into  the  ludicrous  or  burlesque.  In  the 
former  case,  the  transition  may  have  the  effect  of  soften- 
ing or  elevating;  while,  in  the  latter,  it  almost  invariably 
shocks; — for  the  same  reason,  perhaps,  that  a  trait  of 
pathos  or  high  feeling,  in  comedy,  has  a  peculiar  charm; 
while  the  intrusion  of  comic  scenes  into  tragedy,  however 
sanctioned  among  us  by  habit  and  authority,  rarely  fails  to 
offend.     The  poet  was  himself  convinced  of  the  failure  of 


APPENDIX.  215 

the  experiment,  and   in   none   of   the   succeeding  cantos 
of  Childe  Harold  repeated  it."  — MoORE.] 

Note  33,  p.  31. 

"Aikye,  Baotian  shades  !  the  reason  why  ?  " 

This  was  written  at  Thebes,  and  consequently  in  the 
best  situation  for  asking  and  answering  such  a  question,  not 
as  the  birthplace  of  Pindar,  but  us  the  capital  of  BcEOtia, 
where  the  first  riddle  was  propounded  and  solved. 

Note  34,  p.  31. 

"  And  consecrate  the  oath  with  draught,  and  dance  till  morn." 

[Lord  Byron  alludes  to  a  ridiculous  custom  which 
formerly  prevailed  at  the  public-houses  in  Highgate,  of 
administering  a  burlesque  oath  to  all  travellers  of  the  mid- 
dling rank  who  stopped  there.  The  party  was  sworn  on 
a  pair  of  horns,  fastened,  "  Never  to  kiss  the  maid  when 
he  could  the  mistress;  never  to  eat  brown  bread  when  he 
could  get  white;  never  to  drink  small  beer  when  he  could 
get  strong;  "  with  many  other  injunctions  of  the  like 
kind,  —  to  all  which  was  added  the  saving  clause,  — 
"  unless  you  like  it  best."  —  E.] 

Note  35,  p.  34. 

"Wraps  his  fierce  eye  —  ^tis  past  —  he  sinks  upon  the  sand!  " 

[The  reader  will  do  well  to  compare  Lord  Byron's 
animated  picture  of  the  popular  "  sport  "  of  the  Spanish 
nation,  with  the  very  circumstantial  details  contained  in 
the  charming  •'  Letters  of  Don  Leucadio  Doblado,"  (i.e., 
the  Rev.  Blanco  White)  published  in  1822.  So  inveter- 
ate was,  at  one  time,  the  rage  of  the  people  for  this 
amusement,  that  even  boys  mimicked  its  features  in  their 
play.     In  the  slaughter-house  itself  the  professional  bull- 


2l6  APPENDIX. 

fighter  gave  public  lessons;  and  such  was  the  force  of 
depraved  custom,  that  ladies  of  the  highest  rank  were 
not  ashamed  to  appear  amidst  the  filth  and  horror  of  the 
shambles.  The  Spaniards  received  this  sport  from  the 
Moors,  among  whom  it  was  celebrated  with  great  pomp 
and  splendor.  —  See  various  Notes  to  Mr.  Lockhart's 
"  Collection  of  Ancient  Spanish  Ballads."     1822. —  E.] 

Note  36,  p.  39. 

"A  traitor  only  fell  beneath  the  feud." 

Alluding  to  the  conduct  and  death  of  Solano,  the  gov- 
ernor of  Cadiz,  in  May,  1809. 

Note  37,  p.  39. 

"  War,  war  is  still  the  cry,  '  War  even  to  the  knife } '  " 

"  War  to  the  knife."  Palafox's  answer  to  the  French 
general  at  the  siege  of  Saragoza.  [In  his  proclamations, 
also,  he  stated,  that,  should  the  French  commit  any  rob- 
beries, devastations,  and  murders,  no  quarter  should  be 
given  them.  The  dogs  by  whom  he  was  beset,  he  said, 
scarcely  left  him  time  to  clean  his  sword  from  their  blood, 
but  they  still  found  their  grave  at  Saragoza.  All  his  ad- 
dresses were  in  the  same  spirit.  "His  language,"  says 
Mr.  Southey,  "  had  the  high  tone,  and  something  of  the 
inflation  of  Spanish  romance,  suiting  the  character  of  those 
to  whom  it  was  directed."  See  "  History  of  the  Penin- 
sula War,"  vol,  iii.  p.  152.  — E.] 

Note  38,  p.  40. 

"A  nd  thou,  my  friend  t  —  since  unavailing  woe. " 

The  Honorable  John  Wingfield,  of  the  Guards,  who 
died  of  a  fever  at  Coimbra,  I  had  known  him  ten  years, 
the  better  half  of  his  life,  and  the  happiest  part  of  mine. 


APPENDIX.  217 

In  the  short  space  of  one  month,  I  have  lost  her  who  gave 
me  being,  and  most  of  those  who  had  made  that  being 
tolerable.     To  me  the  lines  of  Young  are  no  fiction :  — 

"  Insatiate  archer !  could  not  one  suffice  ? 
Thy  shaft  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  peace  was  slain. 
And  thrice  ere  thrice  yon  moon  had  fill'd  her  horn. 

I  should  have  ventured  a  verse  to  the  memory  of  the  late 
Charles  Skinner  Matthews,  Fellow  of  Downing  College, 
Cambridge,  were  he  not  too  much  above  all  praise  of 
mine.  His  powers  of  mind,  shown  in  the  attainment 
of  greater  honors,  against  the  ablest  candidates,  than 
those  of  any  graduate  on  record  at  Cambridge,  have  suffi- 
ciently established  his  fame  on  the  spot  where  it  was 
acquired;  while  his  softer  qualities  live  in  the  recollection 
of  friends  who  loved  him  too  well  to  envy  his  superiority. 
—  [This  and  the  following  stanza  were  added  in  August, 
181 1.  Matthews  was  the  son  of  the  late  John  Matthews, 
Esq.  (the  representative  of  Herefordshire  in  the  parlia- 
ment of  1802-6),  and  brother  of  the  author  of  "The 
Diary  of  an  Invalid,"  also  untimely  snatched  away.  —  E.] 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  II. 

Note  i,  p.  45. 

"And  is,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire  ^^ 

Part  of  the  Acropolis  was  destroyed  by  the  explosion  of 
a  magazine  during  the  Venetian  siege.  —  [On  the  highest 
part  of  Lycabettus,  as  Chandler  was  informed  by  an  eye- 
witness, the  Venetians,  in  1687,  placed  four  mortars  and 
six  pieces  of  cannon,  when  they  battered  the  Acropolis. 
One  of  the  bombs  was  fatal  to  some  of  the  sculpture  on 
the  west  front  of  the  Parthenon.  "In  1667,"  says  Mr. 
Hobhouse,  "every  antiquity  of  which  there  is  now  any 
trace  in  the  Acropolis,  was  in  a  tolerable  state  of  preser- 
vation. This  great  temple  might,  at  that  period,  be  called 
entire;  —  having  been  previously  a  Christian  church,  it  was 
then  a  mosque,  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world.  The  por- 
tion yet  standing,  cannot  fail  to  fill  the  mind  of  the  most 
indifferent  spectator  with  sentiments  of  astonishment  and 
awe;  and  the  same  reflections  arise  upon  the  sight  even 
of  the  enormous  masses  of  marble  ruins  which  are  spread 
upon  the  area  of  the  temple."  —  E.] 

Note  2,  p.  46. 

"Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps." 

It  was  not  always  the  custom  of  the  Greeks  to  burn 
their  dead;  the  greater  Ajax,  in  particular,  was  interred 
entire.  Almost  all  the  chiefs  became  gods  after  their 
decease;  and  he  was  indeed  neglected,  who  had  not 
annual  games  near  his  tomb,  or  festivals  in  honor  of  his 
2l8 


APPENDIX.  219 

memory  by  his  countrymen,  as  Achilles,  Brasidas,  etc.,  and 
at  last  even  Antinous,  whose  death  was  as  heroic  as  his 
life  was  infamous. 

Note  3,  p.  48. 

"For  tne  'twere  5liss  enough  to  know  thy  spirit  blest ! " 

Lord  Byron  wrote  this  stanza  at  Newstead,  in  October, 
181 1,  on  hearing  of  the  death  of  his  Cambridge  friend, 
young  Eddlestone. 

Note  4,  p.  48. 

"A  nd  bear  these  altars  o'er  the  long-reluctant  brine. " 

The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympius,  of  which  sixteen 
columns,  entirely  of  marble,  yet  survive :  originally  there 
were  one  hundred  and  fifty.  These  columns,  however, 
are  by  many  supposed  to  have  belonged  to  the  Pantheon. 

Note  5,  p.  49. 

"Yet  felt  some  portion  of  their  mother''! pains. ''^ 

I  cannot  resist  availing  myself  of  the  permission  of  my 
friend  Dr.  Clarke,  whose  name  requires  no  comment  with 
the  public,  but  whose  sanction  will  add  tenfold  weight  to 
my  testimony,  to  insert  the  following  extract  from  a  very 
obliging  letter  of  his  to  me,  as  a  note  to  the  above  lines : 
—  "When  the  last  of  the  Metopes  was  taken  from  the 
Parthenon,  and,  in  moving  of  it,  great  part  of  the  super- 
structure with  one  of  the  triglyphs  was  thrown  down  by 
the  workmen  whom  Lord  Elgin  employed,  the  Disdar,  who 
beheld  the  mischief  done  to  the  building,  took  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  dropped  a  tear,  and,  in  a  supplicating 
tone  of  voice,  said  to  Lusieri,  TiXo^\  —  I  was  present." 
The  Disdar  alluded  to  was  the  father  of  the  present 
Disdar. 


22  o  APPENDIX. 

Note  6,  p.  49. 

Stern  Alaric  and  Havoc  on  their  way  ?  "j 

According  to  Zosimus,  Minerva  and  Achilles  frightened 
Alaric  from  the  Acropolis;  but  others  relate  that  the 
Gothic  king  was  nearly  as  mischievous  as  the  Scottish 
peer.  —  See  Chandler. 

Note  7,  p.  51. 

"  The  netted  canopy. ^^ 

To  prevent  blocks  or  splinters  from  falling  on  deck 
during  action. 

Note  8,  p.  54. 

"  Such  as  on  lonely  Athos  tnay  be  seen." 

[One  of  Lord  Byron's  chief  delights  was,  as  he  himself 
states  in  one  of  his  journals,  dfter  bathing  in  some  retired 
spot,  to  seat  himself  on  a  high  rock  above  the  sea,  and 
there  remain  for  hours,  gazing  upon  the  sky  and  the 
waters.  "He  led  the  life,"  says  Sir  Egerton  Brydges, 
"  as  he  wrote  the  strains,  of  a  true  poet.  He  could  sleep, 
and  very  frequently  did  sleep,  wrapped  up  in  his  rough 
great  coat,  on  the  hard  boards  of  a  deck,  while  the  winds 
and  the  waves  were  roaring  round  him  on  every  side,  and 
could  subsist  on  a  crust  and  a  glass  of  water.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  persuade  me,  that  he  who  is  a  coxcomb 
in  his  manners,  and  artificial  in  his  habits  of  life,  could 
write  good  poetry."  —  E.] 

Note  9,  p.  54. 
"But  not  in  silence  pass  Calypso's  isles." 
Goza  is  said  to  have  been  the  island  of  Calypso. 


APPENDIX.  221 

Note  io,  p.  56. 

"  Was  not  unskilful  in  the  spoiler's  art^' 

[Against  this  line  it  is  sufficient  to  set  the  poet's  own 
declaration,  in  1821,  "I  am  not  a  Joseph,  nor  a  Scipio, 
but  I  can  safely  affirm  that  I  never  in  my  life  seduced 
any  woman."  —  E.] 

Note  ii,  p.  58. 

"  Where  sad  Penelope  o'crlook'd  the  wave." 

Ithaca. —  ["Sept.  24th,"  says  Mr.  Hobhouse,  "we 
were  in  the  channel,  with  Ithaca,  then  in  the  hands  of  the 
French,  to  the  west  of  us.  We  were  close  to  it,  and  saw 
a  few  shrubs  on  a  brown  heathy  land,  two  little  towns  in 
the  hills,  scattered  amongst  trees,  and  a  windmill  or  two, 
with  a  tower  on  the  heights.  That  Ithaca  was  not  very 
strongly  garrisoned,  you  will  easily  believe,  when  I  tell, 
that  a  month  afterwards,  when  the  Ionian  Islands  were  in- 
vested by  a  British  squadron,  it  was  surrendered  into  the 
hands  of  a  sergeant  and  seven  men."  For  a  very  curious 
account  of  the  state  of  the  kingdom  of  Ulysses  in  1816, 
see  Williams's  "Travels,"  vol.  ii.  p.  427.] 

Note  12,  p.  58. 

"  Childe  Harold  haiVd  Leucadia^s  cape  afar" 

Leucadia,  now  Santa  Maura.  From  the  promontory 
(the  Lover's  Leap)  Sappho  is  said  to  have  thrown 
herself. 

Note  13,  p.  58. 

"  Actiunt,  Lepanio,  fatal  Trafalgar." 

Actium  and  Trafalgar  need  no  further  mention.  The 
battle  of  Lepanto,  equally  bloody  and  considerable,  but 


222  APPENDIX. 

less  known,  was  fought  in  the  Gulf  of  Patras.     Here  the 
author  of  Don  Quixote  lost  his  left  hand. 

Note  14,  p.  60. 

"  Did  many  a  Roman  chief  and  Asian  king^." 

It  is  said,  that,  on  the  day  previous  to  the  battle  of 
Actium,  Antony  had  thirteen  kings  at  his  levee.  —  ["  To- 
day "  (Nov.  12),  "I  saw  the  remains  of  the  town  of 
Actium,  near  which  Antony  lost  the  world,  in  a  small  bay, 
where  two  frigates  could  hardly  manoeuvre :  a  broken  wall 
is  the  sole  remnant.  On  another  part  of  the  gulf  stand 
the  ruins  of  Nicopolis,  built  by  Augustus,  in  honor  of  his 
victory."  —  B.  to  his  Mother^  1809.  ] 

Note  15,  p.  60. 
"  Look  where  the  second  Ccesar's  trophies  rose.'" 

Nicopolis,  whose  ruins  are  most  extensive,  is  at  some 
distance  from  Actium,  where  the  wall  of  the  Hippodrome 
survives  in  a  few  fragments.  These  ruins  are  large  masses 
of  brickwork,  the  bricks  of  which  are  joined  by  interstices 
of  mortar,  as  large  as  the  bricks  themselves,  and  equally 
durable. 

Note  16,  p.  60. 
"He  pass' d bleak  Pindus,  Acherusia's  lake." 

According  to  Pouqueville,  the  lake  of  Yanina;  but 
Pouqueville  is  always  out. 

Note  17,  p.  60. 

"  To  greet  Albania's  chief,  whose  dread  command." 

The  celebrated  Ali  Pacha.  Of  this  extraordinary  man 
there  is  an  incorrect  account  in  Pouqueville's  Travels.  — 
["I  left  Malta  in  the  Spider  bng-of-war,  on  the  21st  oi 


APPENDIX.  223 

September,  and  arrived  in  eight  days  at  Prevesa.  I  thence 
have  traversed  the  interior  of  the  province  of  Albania,  on 
a  visit  to  the  Pacha,  as  far  as  Tepaleen,  his  highness 's 
country  palace,  where  I  stayed  three  days.  The  name  of 
the  Pacha  is  Ali,  and  he  is  considered  a  man  of  the  first 
abilities:  he  governs  the  whole  of  Albania  (the  ancient 
Illyricum),  Epirus,  and  part  of  Macedonia." — B,  to  his 
Mother. '\ 

Note  i8,  p.  60. 

"Hurl  their  defiance  far,  twr  yield,  unless  to  gold." 

Five  thousand  Suliotes,  among  the  rocks  and  in  the 
castle  of  Suli,  withstood  thirty  thousand  Albanians  for 
eighteen  years;  the  castle  at  last  was  taken  by  bribery. 
In  this  contest  there  were  several  acts  performed  not 
unworthy  of  the  better  days  of  Greece. 

Note  rg,  p.  61. 

"Monastic  Zitza  1  from  thy  shady  brow." 

The  convent  and  village  of  Zitza  are  four  hours'  journey 
from  Joannina,  or  Yanina,  the  capital  of  the  Pachalick. 
In  the  valley  the  river  Kalamas  (once  the  Acheron)  flows, 
and,  not  far  from  Zitza,  forms  a  fine  cataract.  The  situa- 
tion is  perhaps  the  finest  in  Greece,  though  the  approach 
to  Delvinachi  and  parts  of  Acarnania  and  NXoXxz.  may 
contest  the  palm.  Delphi,  Parnassus,  and  Attica,  even 
Cape  Colonna  and  Port  Raphti,  are  very  inferior;  as  also 
every  scene  in  Ionia,  or  the  Troad :  I  am  almost  inclined 
to  add  the  approach  to  Constantinople;  but,  from  the 
different  features  of  the  last,  a  comparison  can  hardly  be 
made.  [*'  Zitza,"  says  the  poet's  companion,  "  is  a 
village  inhabited  by  Greek  peasants.  Perhaps  there  is 
not  in  the  world  a  more  romantic  prospect  than  that  which 
is  viewed  from  the  summit  of  the  hill.     The  foreground  is 


224  APPENDIX. 

a  gentle  declivity,  terminating  on  every  side  in  an  exten- 
sive landscape  of  green  hills  and  dale,  enriched  with  vine- 
yards, and  dotted  with  frequent  flocks."  —  E.] 

Note  20,  p.  61. 
"Here  dwells  the  caloyer,  nor  rude  is  he." 
The  Greek  monks  are  so  called.  —  ["  We  went  into  the 
monastery,"  says  Mr.  Hobhouse,  "after  some  parley  with 
one  of  the  monks,  through  a  small  door  plated  with  iron, 
on  which  the  marks  of  violence  were  very  apparent,  and 
which,  before  the  country  had  been  tranquillized  under  the 
powerful  government  of  Ali,  had  been  battered  in  vain  by 
the  troops  of  robbers  then,  by  turns,  infesting  every  dis- 
trict. The  prior,  a  humble,  meek-mannered  man,  enter- 
tained us  in  a  warm  chamber  with  grapes,  and  a  pleasant 
white  wine,  not  trodden  out,  as  he  told  us,  by  the  feet, 
but  pressed  from  the  grape  by  the  hand;  and  we  were  so 
well  pleased  with  everything  about  us,  that  we  agreed  to 
lodge  with  him  on  our  return  from  the  Vizier."] 

Note  21,  p.  62. 
"  Nature's  volcanic  amphitheatre." 
The  Chimariot  mountains  appear  to  have  been  volcanic. 

Note  22,  p.  62. 
^^ Nodding  above  ;  behold  black  Acheron  !  " 
Now  called  Kalamas. 

Note  23,  p.  62. 

"  The  little  shepherd  in  his  white  capote."  , 

Albanese  cloak. 

Note  24,  p.  63. 

"  The  sun  itad  sunk  behind  vast  Tomer  it" 

Anciently  Mount  Tomarus. 


APPENDIX.  225 

Note  25,  p.  63. 

"  And  Laos  tvide  and  fierce  came  roaring  by." 

The  river  Laos  was  full  at  the  time  the  author  passed  it; 
and,  immediately  above  Tepaleen,  was  to  the  eye  as  wide 
as  the  Thames  at  Westminster;  at  least  in  the  opinion  of 
the  author  and  his  fellow-traveller.  In  the  summer  it 
must  be  much  narrower.  It  certainly  is  the  finest  river  in 
the  Levant;  neither  Achelous,  Alpheus,  Acheron,  Sca- 
mander,  nor  Cayster,  approached  it  in  breadth  or  beauty. 

Note  26,  p.  63. 

"Swelling  the  breeze  that  sighed  along  the  lengthening  glen." 

["  Ali  Pacha,  hearing  that  an  Englishman  of  rank  was 
in  his  dominions,  left  orders,  in  Yanina,  with  the  com- 
mandant, to  provide  a  house,  and  supply  me  with  every 
kind  of  necessary  gratis.  I  rode  out  on  the  vizier's 
horses,  and  saw  the  palaces  of  himself  and  grandsons.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  singular  scene  on  entering  Tepaleen, 
at  five  in  the  afternoon  (Oct.  11),  as  the  sun  was  going 
down.  It  brought  to  my  mind  (with  some  change  of 
dress,  however)  Scott's  description  of  Branksome  Castle 
in  his  Lay,  and  the  feudal  system.  The  Albanians  in 
their  dresses  (the  most  magnificent  in  the  world,  consist- 
ing of  a  long  white  kilt,  gold-worked  cloak,  crimson  vel- 
vet gold-laced  jacket  and  waistcoat,  silver-mounted  pistols 
and  daggers);  the  Tartars,  with  their  high  caps;  the 
Turks  in  their  vast  pelisses  and  turbans;  the  soldiers  and 
black  slaves  with  the  horses,  the  former  in  groups,  in  an 
immense  large  open  gallery  in  front  of  the  palace,  the 
latter  placed  in  a  kind  of  cloister  below  it;  two  hundred 
steeds  ready  caparisoned  to  move  in  a  moment;  couriers 
entering  or  passing  out  with  despatches;  the  kettle-drums 
beating;   boys  calling  the  hour  from  the  minaret  of  the 


226  APPENDIX. 

mosque;  — altogether,  with  the  singular  appearance  of 
the  building  itself,  formed  a  new  and  delightful  spectacle 
to  a  stranger.  I  was  conducted  to  a  very  handsome  apart- 
ment, and  my  health  inquired  after  by  the  vizier's  secre- 
tary, '  \  la  mode  Turque.'  "  — B.  Letters.  —  E.] 

Note  27,  p.  65. 

"  '  There  is  no  god  but  God  I  —  to  prayti —  lo !  God  is  gnat !'" 

["  On  our  arrival  at  Tepaleen,  we  were  lodged  in  the 
palace.  During  the  night,  we  were  disturbed  by  the  per- 
petual carousal  which  seemed  to  be  kept  up  in  the  gallery, 
and  by  the  drum,  and  the  voice  of  the  '  Muezzin,'  or  chan- 
ter, calling  the  Turks  to  prayers  from  the  minaret  or  the 
mosck  attached  to  the  palace.  The  chanter  was  a  boy, 
and  he  sang  out  his  hymn  in  a  sort  of  loud  melancholy 
recitative.  He  was  a  long  time  repeating  the  purport  of 
these  few  words :  '  God  most  high !  I  bear  witness,  that 
there  is  no  god  but  God,  and  Mahomet  is  his  prophet: 
come  to  prayer;  come  to  the  asylum  of  salvation;  great 
God !  there  is  no  God  but  God !  "  —  Hobhouse.] 

Note  28,  p.  65. 

"lust  at  this  season  Ramazani's/asi." 

["We  were  a  little  unfortunate  in  the  time  we  chose 
for  travelling,  for  it  was  during  the  Ramazan,  or  Turkish 
Lent,  which  fell  this  year  in  October,  and  was  hailed  at 
the  rising  of  the  new  moon,  on  the  evening  of  the  8th, 
by  every  demonstration  of  joy :  but  although,  during  this 
month,  the  strictest  abstinence  is  observed  in  the  daytime, 
yet  with  the  setting  of  the  sun  the  feasting  commences : 
then  is  the  time  for  paying  and  receiving  visits,  and  for 
the  amusements  of  Turkey,  puppet-shows,  jugglers,  dan- 
cers, and  story-tellers."  —  HoBHOUSE.] 


APPENDIX.  227 

Note  29,  p.  66. 
'M/»  reclined,  a  man  of  war  andvjoes.^^ 

["On  the  1 2th,  I  was  introduced  to  Ali  Pacha.  The 
vizier  received  me  in  a  large  room  paved  with  marble;  a 
fountain  was  playing  in  the  centre.  He  received  me 
standing,  a  wonderful  compliment  from  a  Mussulman,  and 
made  me  sit  down  on  his  right  hand.  His  first  question 
was,  why,  at  so  early  an  age,  I  left  my  country.  He  then 
said,  the  English  minister  had  told  him  I  was  of  a  great 
family,  and  desired  his  respects  to  my  mother;  which  I 
now,  in  the  name  of  Ali  Pacha,  present  to  you.  He  said 
he  was  certain  I  was  a  man  of  birth,  because  I  had  small 
ears,  curling  hair,  and  little  white  hands.  He  told  me  to 
consider  him  as  a  father,  whilst  I  was  in  Turkey,  and  said 
he  looked  on  me  as  his  own  son.  Indeed,  he  treated  me 
like  a  child,  sending  me  almonds  and  sugared  sherbet, 
fruit,  and  sweetmeats,  twenty  times  a  day.  I  then,  after 
coffee  and  pipes,  retired,"  —  B.  to  his  Mother. '\ 

Note  30,  p.  66. 
"///  suits  the  passions  which  belong-  to  youth." 

[Mr.  Hobhouse  describes  the  vizier  as  "  a  short  man, 
about  five  feet  five  inches  in  height,  and  very  fat;  pos- 
sessing a  very  pleasing  face,  fair  and  round,  with  blue 
quick  eyes,  not  at  all  settled  into  a  Turkish  gravity." 
Dr.  Holland  happily  compares  the  spirit  which  lurked 
under  All's  usual  exterior,  as  "  the  fire  of  a  stove,  burning 
fiercely  under  a  smooth  and  polished  surface."  When 
the  doctor  returned  from  Albania,  in  1813,  he  brought  a 
letter  from  the  Pacha  to  Lord  Byron.  "It  is,"  says  the 
poet,  "  in  Latin,  and  begins  '  Excellentissime,  necnon 
Carissime,'  and  ends  alxjut  a  gun  he  wants  made  for  him. 
He  tells  me  that,  last  spring,  he  took  a  town,  a  hostile 


228  APPENDIX. 

town,  where,  forty-two  years  j^o,  his  mother  and  sisters 
were  treated  as  Miss  Cunegunde  was  by  the  Bulgarian 
cavalry.  He  takes  the  town,  selects  all  the  survivors  of 
the  exploit  —  children,  grandchildren,  etc.,  to  the  tune  of 
six  hundred,  and  has  them  shot  before  his  face.  So  much 
for  *  dearest  friend.'  "  —  E.] 

Note  31,  p.  66. 

"In  bloodier  acU  conclude  tJuae  who  with  blood  began." 

[The  fate  of  Ali  was  precisely  such  as  the  poet  antici- 
pated. For  a  circumstantial  account  of  his  assassination, 
in  February,  1822,  see  Walsh's  Journey.  His  head  was 
sent  to  Constantinople,  and  exhibited  at  the  gates  of  the 
seraglio.  As  the  name  of  Ali  had  made  a  considerable 
noise  in  England,  in  consequence  of  his  negotiations  with 
Sir  Thomas  Maitland,  and  still  more,  perhaps,  these 
stanzas  of  Lord  Byron,  a  merchant  of  Constantinople 
thought  it  would  be  no  bad  speculation  to  purchase  the 
head  and  consign  it  to  a  London  showman;  but  this 
scheme  was  defeated  by  the  piety  of  an  old  servant  of  the 
Pacha,  who  bribed  the  executioner  with  a  higher  price, 
and  bestowed  decent  sepulture  on  the  relic.  —  E.] 

Note  32,  p.  67. 
"And/icUow-countrymen  have  stood  aloof." 
Alluding  to  the  wreckers  of  Cornwall. 

Note  33,  p.  69. 

"  The /east  was  done,  the  red  wine  circling  fast  ^^ 

The  Albanian  Mussulmans  do  not  abstain  from  wine, 
and,  indeed,  very  few  of  the  others. 


APPENDIX.  229 

Note  34,  p.  69. 
"Each  Palikar  his  sabre  front  him  casl." 

Palikar,  shortened  when  addressed  to  a  single  person, 
from  UaXlxcxQi,  a  general  name  for  a  soldier  amongst  the 
Greeks  and  Albanese  who  speak  Romaic :  it  means,  pro- 
perly, "a  lad." 

Note  35,  p.  69. 

"Yelling  their  uncouth  dirge,  long  daunced the  kirtled clan." 

[The  following  is  Mr.  Hobhouse's  animated  description 
of  this  scene: — "In  the  evening  the  gates  were  secured, 
and  preparations  were  made  for  feeding  our  Albanians. 
A  goat  was  killed  and  roasted  whole,  and  four  fires  were 
kindled  in  the  yard,  round  which  the  soldiers  seated  them- 
selves in  parties.  After  eating  and  drinking,  the  greatest 
part  of  them  assembled  round  the  largest  of  the  fires,  and, 
whilst  ourselves  and  the  elders  of  the  party  were  seated  on 
the  ground,  danced  round  the  blaze,  to  their  own  songs, 
with  astonishing  energy.  All  their  songs  were  relations 
of  some  robbing  exploits.  One  of  them,  which  detained 
them  more  than  an  hour,  began  thus: — 'When  we  set 
out  from  Parga,  there  were  sixty  of  us:'  then  came  the 
burden  of  the  verse,  — 

'  Robbers  all  at  Parga ! 

Robbers  all  at  Parga  I  ' 
'  KAc(^T(it  iroTe  Ilapya  1 

KA((^TCt«  irdre  Ilapya  I  ' 

and,  as  they  roared  out  this  stave,  they  whirled  round  the 
fire,  dropped,  and  rebounded  from  their  knees,  and  again 
whirled  round,  as  the  chorus  was  again  repeated.  The 
rippling  of  the  waves  upon  the  pebbly  margin  where  we 
were  seated,  filled  up  the  pauses  of  the  song  with  a  milder, 
and  not  more  monotonous  music.  The  night  was  very 
dark;  but,  by  the  flashes  of  the  fires,  we  caught  a  glimpse 


230  APPENDIX. 

of  the  woods,  the  rocks,  and  the  lake,  which,  together 
with  the  wild  appearance  of  the  dancers,  presented  us 
with  a  scene  that  would  have  made  a  fine  picture  in  the 
hands  of  such  an  artist  as  the  author  of  the  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho.  As  we  were  acquainted  with  the  character  of 
the  Albanians,  it  did  not  at  all  diminish  our  pleasure  to 
know  that  every  one  of  our  guard  had  been  robbers,  and 
some  of  them  a  very  short  time  before.  It  was  eleven 
o'clock  before  we  had  retired  to  our  room,  at  which  time 
the  Albanians,  wrapping  themselves  up  in  their  capotes, 
went  to  sleep  round  the  fires."] 

Note  36,  p.  69. 

"Tatnbottrgii  Tambourgil  thy  'larum  afar'* 
Drummer. 

Note  37,  p.  69. 

"Chimariot,  lUyrian,  and  dark  Sulioie  I " 

These  stanzas  are  partly  taken  from  different  Albanese 
songs,  as  far  as  I  was  able  to  make  them  out  by  the  ex- 
position of  the  Albanese  in  Romaic  and  Italian. 

Note  38,  p.  70. 
"Remembtr  the  moment  when  Previsa/ell." 
It  was  taken  by  storm  from  the  French. 

Note  39,  p.  71. 

"Let  the  yellow-hair' d  Giaours  view  his  horsetail  with  dread." 

Yellow  is  the  epithet  given  to  the  Russians. 

Note  40,  p.  71. 
(Giaour)  Infidel. 


APPENDIX.  231 

Note  41,  p.  71. 

*'Let  the  yellow-hair' d  Giaours  view  kis  horsetail  wUh  dread.'* 

(Horsetail)  The  insignia  of  a  Pacha. 

Note  42,  p.  71. 
"  IVhen  hit  Delhis  came  dashing'  in  blood  o'er  the  banks." 
Horsemen,  answering  to  our  forlorn  hope. 

Note  43,  p.  71. 

"Selictar!  unsheathe  then  our  chief's  scimitar." 

Sword-bearer. 

Note  44,  p.  71. 

"Spirit  of  freedom  I  when  on  Phyle's  brow" 

Phylc,  which  commands  a  beautiful  view  of  Athens,  has 
still  considerable  remains:  it  was  seized  by  Thrasybulus, 
previous  to  the  expulsion  of  the  Thirty. 

Note  45,  p.  73. 
"  Receive  the  fiery  Frank,  her  former  guest." 

When  taken  by  the   Latins,  and  retained  for  several 

years. 

Note  46,  p.  73. 

"  The  ^ophefs  tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil." 

Mecca  and  Medina  were  taken  some  time  ago  by  the 
Wahabees,  a  sect  yearly  increasing. 

Note  47,  p.  73 

"  Oh  Stamboul  I  ottce  the  empress  of  their  reign." 

[Of  Constantinople  Lord  Byron  says,  —  "I  have  seen 

the   ruins  of   Athens,  of    Ephesus,  and   Delphi  ;    I   have 

traversed  great  part  of  Turkey,  and  many  other  parts  of 


232  APPENDIX. 

Europe,  and  some  of  Asia  ;  but  I  never  beheld  a  work 
of  nature  or  art  which  yielded  an  impression  like  the 
prospect  on  each  side,  from  the  Seven  Towers  to  the  end 
of  the  Golden  Horn."  —  E.] 

Note  48,  p.  75. 

"  Thy  vales  of  evergreen,  thy  hills  of  snow." 

On  many  of   the  mountains,  particularly  Liakura,  the 

snow  never  is  entirely  melted,  notwithstanding  the  intense 

heat  of  the  summer  ;  but  I  never  saw  it  lie  on  the  plains, 

even  in  winter. 

Note  49,  p.  76. 

"Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave." 

Of  Mount  Pentelicus,  from  whence  the  marble  was  dug 
that  constructed  the  public  edifices  of  Athens.  The  mod- 
ern name  is  Mount  Mendeli.  An  immense  cave,  formed 
by  the  quarries,  still  remains,  and  will  till  the  end  of  time. 

Note  50,  p.  76. 
"  Colonna's  cliff,  and  gleams  along  the  wave." 

In  all  Attica,  if  we  except  Athens  itself  and  Marathon, 
there  is  no  scene  more  interesting  than  Cape  Colonna. 
To  the  antiquary  and  artist,  sixteen  columns  are  an  inex- 
haustible source  of  observation  and  design  ;  to  the  philos- 
opher, the  supposed  scene  of  some  of  Plato's  conversations 
will  not  be  unwelcome  ;  and  the  traveller  will  be  struck 
with  the  beauty  of  the  prospect  over  "  Isles  that  crown  the 
ALgean  deep ;  "  but,  for  an  Englishman,  Colonna  has  yet 
an  additional  interest,  as  the  actual  spot  of  Falconer's 
Shipwreck.  Pallas  and  Plato  are  forgotten,  in  the  recol- 
lection of  Falconer  and  Campbell :  — 

"  Here  in  the  dead  of  night  by  Lonna's  steep, 
The  seaman's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep." 


APPENDIX.  233 

This  temple  of  Minerva  may  be  seen  at  sea  from  a  great  dis- 
tance. In  two  journeys  which  I  made,  and  one  voyage  to 
Cape  Colonna,  the  view  from  either  side,  by  land,  was  less 
striking  than  the  approach  from  the  isles.  In  our  second 
land  excursion,  we  had  a  narrow  escape  from  a  party  of 
Mainotes,  concealed  in  the  caverns  beneath.  We  were 
told  afterwards,  by  one  of  their  prisoners,  subsequently 
ransomed,  that  they  were  deterred  from  attacking  us  by 
the  appearance  of  my  two  Albanians:  conjecturing  very 
sagaciously,  but  falsely,  that  we  had  a  complete  guard  of 
these  Arnaouts  at  hand,  they  remained  stationary,  and  thus 
saved  our  party,  which  was  too  small  to  have  opposed  any 
effectual  resistance.  Colonna  is  no  less  a  resort  of  painters 
than  of  pirates  ;  there 

"  The  hireling  artist  plants  his  paltry  desk, 
And  makes  degraded  nature  picturesque." 

(See  Hodgson's  "  Lady  Jane  Grey,"  etc.) 

But  there  Nature,  with  the  aid  of  Art,  has  done  that  for 

herself.     I  was  fortunate  enough  to  engage  a  very  superior 

German  artist  ;  and  hope  to  renew  my  acquaintance  with 

this  and  many  other  Levantine  scenes,  by  the  arrival  of  his 

performances. 

Note  51,  p.  77. 

"  Whtn  Marathon  became  a  magic  word." 

"  Siste  Viator  —  heroa  caleas !  "  was  the  epitaph  on  the 
famous  Count  Merci  ;  —  what  then  must  be  our  feelings 
when  standing  on  the  tumulus  of  the  two  hundred  (Greeks) 
'vho  fell  on  Marathon?  The  principal  barrow  has  recently 
been  opened  by  Fauvel:  few  or  no  relics,  as  vases,  etc., 
were  found  by  the  excavator.  The  plain  of  Marathon  was 
offered  to  me  for  sale  at  the  sum  of  sixteen  thousand  pi- 
astres, about  nine  hundred  pounds !  Alas !  —  "  Expende 
—  qaot  hl>ras  in  duce   summo  —  invenies!"  —  was   the 


234  APPENDIX. 

dust  of  Miltiades  worth  no  more  ?     It  could  scarcely  have 
fetched  less  if  sold  by  weight. 

Note  52,  p.  80. 

"  A  nd  be  alone  on  earth,  as  I  am  now" 

[This  stanza  was  written  October  11,  181 1  ;  upon  which 
day  the  poet,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  says,  —  "It  seems  as 
though  I  were  to  experience  in  my  youth  the  greatest  mis- 
ery of  age.  My  friends  fall  around  me,  and  I  shall  be  left 
a  lonely  tree  before  I  am  withered.  Other  men  can  always 
take  refuge  in  their  families :  I  have  no  resource  but  my 
own  reflections,  and  they  present  no  prospect  here  or  here- 
after, except  the  selfish  satisfaction  of  surviving  my  friends. 
I  am  indeed  very  wretched."  In  reference  to  this  stanza, 
"  Surely,"  said  Professor  Clarke  to  the  author  of  the  '  Pur- 
suits of  Literature,"  Lord  Byron  cannot  have  experienced 
such  keen  anguish  as  these  exquisite  allusions  to  what  older 
men  may  have  felt  seem  to  denote."  —  "I  fear  he  has," 
answered  Matthias;  —  '*he  could  not  otherwise  Iiave  writ- 
ten such  a  poem. "  —  E.  ] 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  III. 

Note  i,  p.  S^- 

"Ada!  sole  daughter  of  my  house  and  heart  f  " 

[In  an  hitherto  unpublished  letter,  dated  Verona,  No- 
vember 6,  1816,  Lord  Byron  says  —  "By  the  way,  Ac/a's 
name  (which  I  found  in  our  pedigree,  under  King  John's 
reign)  is  the  same  with  that  of  the  sister  of  Charlemagne, 
as  I  redde,  the  other  day,  in  a  book  treating  of  the  Rhine." 

-E.] 

Note  2,  p.  83. 

"  IVhen  Anion's  lessening  shores  could  grieve  or  glad  mine  eye." 

[Lord  Byron  quitted  England,  for  the  second  and  last 

time,  on  the  25th  of  April,  1816,  attended  by  William 

Fletcher  and  Robert  Rushton,  the  "  yeoman  "  and  "  page  " 

of   Canto  I.;    his  physician,  Dr.  Polidori ;    and  a  Swiss 

valet,  — E.] 

Note  3,  p.  85. 

"In  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age :  years  steal." 

[The  first  and  second  cantos  of  "  Childe  Harold's  Pil- 
grimage "  produced,  on  their  appearance  in  181 2,  an 
effect  upon  the  public,  at  least  equal  to  any  work  which 
has  appeared  within  this  or  the  last  century,  and  placed 
at  once  upon  Lord  Byron's  head  the  gailand  for  which 
other  men  of  genius  have  toiled  long,  and  which  they  have 
gained  late.  He  was  placed  pre-eminent  among  the  lit- 
erary men  of  his  country  by  general  acclamation.  It  was 
amidst  such  feelings  of  admiration  that  he  entered  the 
public  stage.  Everything  in  his  manner,  person  and  con- 
23s 


236  APPENDIX. 

versation,  tended  to  maintain  the  charm  which  his  genius 
had  flung  around  him ;  and  those  admitted  to  his  conversa- 
tion, far  from  finding  that  the  inspired  poet  sunk  into 
ordinary  mortality,  felt  themselves  attached  to  him,  not 
only  by  many  noble  qualities,  but  by  the  interest  of  a 
mysterious,  undefined,  and  almost  painful  curiosity.  A 
countenance  exquisitely  modelled  to  the  expression  of  feel- 
ing and  passion,  and  exhibiting  the  remarkable  contrast  of 
very  dark  hair  and  eyebrows,  with  light  and  expressive 
eyes,  presented  to  the  physiognomist  the  most  interesting 
subject  for  the  exercise  of  his  art.  The  predominating 
expression  was  that  of  deep  and  habitual  thought,  which 
gave  way  to  the  most  rapid  play  of  features  when  he  en- 
gaged in  interesting  discussion;  so  that  a  brother  poet 
compared  them  to  the  sculpture  of  a  beautiful  alabaster 
vase,  only  seen  to  perfection  when  lighted  up  from  within. 
The  flashes  of  mirth,  gayety,  indignation,  or  satirical  dis- 
like, which  frequently  animated  Lord  Byron's  counte- 
nance, might,  during  an  evening's  conversation,  be  mis- 
taken, by  a  stranger,  for  the  habitual  expression,  so  easily 
and  so  happily  was  it  formed  for  them  all;  but  those  who 
had  an  opportunity  of  studying  his  features  for  a  length  of 
time,  and  upon  various  occasions,  both  of  rest  and  emotion, 
will  agree  that  their  proper  language  was  that  of  melan- 
choly. Sometimes  shades  of  this  gloom  interrupted  ever 
his  gayest  and  most  happy  moments.  —  SiR  Walter 
Scott.  ] 

Note  4,  p.  88. 
"Self-exiled  Harold  wanders  forth  again." 

["In  the  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold,"  says  Sir  Eger- 
ton  Brydges,  "  there  is  much  inequality.  The  thoughts 
and  images  are  sometimes  labored;  but  still  they  are  a 
very  great  improvement  upon  the  first  two  cantos.     Lord 


APPENDIX.  237 

Byron  here  speaks  in  his  own  language  and  character,  not 
in  the  tone  of  others;  — he  is  describing,  not  inventing; 
therefore  he  has  not,  and  cannot  have,  the  freedom  with 
which  fiction  is  composed.  Sometimes  he  has  a  concise- 
ness which  is  very  powerful,  but  almost  abrupt.  From 
trusting  himself  alone,  and  working  out  his  own  deep- 
buried  thoughts,  he  now,  perhaps,  fell  into  a  habit  of 
laboring,  even  where  there  was  no  occasion  to  labor.  In 
the  first  sixteen  stanzas  there  is  yet  a  mighty  but  groaning 
burst  of  dark  appalling  strength.  It  was  unquestionably 
the  unexaggerated  picture  of  a  most  tempestuous  and 
sombre,  but  magnificent  soul !  "] 

Note  5,  p.  88. 

"Did yet  inspire  a  cheer,  which  he /orebore  to  check." 

[These  stanzas,  —  in  which  the  author,  adopting  more 
distinctly  the  character  of  Childe  Harold  than  in  the  origi- 
nal poem,  assigns  the  cause  why  he  has  resumed  his  Pil- 
grim's staff  when  it  was  hoped  he  had  sat  down  for  life  a 
denizen  of  his  native  country,  —  abound  with  much  moral 
interest  and  poetical  beauty.  The  commentary  through 
which  the  meaning  of  this  melancholy  tale  is  rendered 
obvious,  is  still  in  vivid  remembrance;  for  the  errors  of 
those  who  excel  their  fellows  in  gifts  and  accomplishments 
are  not  soon  forgotten.  Those  scenes,  ever  most  painful 
to  the  bosom,  were  rendered  yet  more  so  by  public  dis- 
cussion; and  it  is  at  least  possible  that  amongst  those  who 
exclaimed  most  loudly  on  this  unhappy  occasion,  were 
some  in  whose  eyes  literary  superiority  exaggerated  Lord 
Byron's  offence.  The  scene  may  be  descrilx;d  in  a  few 
words:  —  the  wise  condemned  —  the  good  regretted  — 
the  multitude,  idly  or  maliciously  inquisitive,  rushed  from 
place  to  place,  gathering  gossip,  which  they  mangled  and 


238  APPENDIX. 

exaggerated  while  they  repeated  it;  and  impudence,  ever 
ready  to  hitch  itself  into  notoriety,  hooked  on,  as  Falstaft 
enjoins  Bardolph,  blustered,  bullied,  and  talked  of  "  plead- 
ing a  cause,"  and  "taking  a  side."  —  Sir  Walter 
Scott.] 

Note  6,  p.  89. 
"In  'pride  of  place  '  here  lazt  the  eagle  flew  ^' 

'*  Pride  of  place  "  is  a  term  of  falconry,  and  means  the 
highest  pitch  of  flight.     See  Macbeth,  etc. 

"  An  eagle  towering  in  his  pride  of  place,"  etc. 

Note  7,  p.  89. 
"Such  as  Harmodius  drew  on  Athens'  tyrant  lord^ 

See  the  famous  song  on  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton. 
The  best  English  translation  is  in  Bland's  Anthology,  by 
Mr.  (Now  Sir  Thomas)  Denman,  — 

"  With  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe,"  etc. 

Note  8,  p.  90. 

"  There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night." 

[There  can  be  no  more  remarkable  proof  of  the  great- 
ness of  Lx)rd  Byron's  genius,  than  the  spirit  and  interest 
he  has  contrived  to  communicate  to  his  picture  of  the 
often-drawn  and  difficult  scene  of  the  breaking  up  from 
Brussels  before  the  great  Battle.  It  is  a  trite  remark,  that 
poets  generally  fail  in  the  representation  of  great  events, 
where  the  interest  is  recent,  and  the  particulars  are  conse- 
quently clearly  and  commonly  known.  It  required  some 
courage  to  venture  on  a  theme  beset  with  so  many  dan- 
gers, and  deformed  with  the  wrecks  of  so  many  former 
adventurers.  See,  however,  with  what  easy  strength  he 
enters  upon  it,  and  with  how  much  grace  he  gradually 


APPENDIX.  239 

finds  his  way  back  to  his  own  peculiar  vein  of  sentiment 
and  diction !  — Jeffrey.] 

Note  9,  p.  90. 
"A  nd  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell/' 

On  the  night  previous  to  the  action,  it  is  said  that  a  ball 
was  given  at  Brussels.  —  [The  popular  error  of  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  having  been  surprised,  on  the  eve  of  the 
battle  of  Waterloo,  at  a  ball  given  by  the  Duchess  of  Rich- 
mond at  Brussels,  was  first  corrected  on  authority,  in  the 
"  History  of  Napoleon  Buonaparte,"  which  forms  a  por- 
tion of  the  "Family  Library."  The  Duke  had  received 
intelligence  of  Napoleon's  decisive  operations,  and  it  was 
intended  to  put  off  the  ball;  but,  on  reflection,  it  seemed 
highly  important  that  the  people  of  Brussels  should  be 
kept  in  ignorance  as  to  the  course  of  events,  and  the  Duke 
not  only  desired  that  the  ball  should  proceed,  but  the 
general  officers  received  his  commands  to  appear  at  it  — 
each  taking  care  to  quit  the  apartment  as  quietly  as  possi- 
ble at  ten  o'clock,  and  proceed  to  join  his  respective 
division  en  route.  —  E.] 

Note  10,  p.  90. 
"  IVhich  stretcKd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier." 
[The  father   of   the   Duke  of   Brunswick,  who  fell  at 
Quatre-bras,  received  his  death-wound  at  Jena.  — E.] 

Note  ii,  p.  90. 
"I/e  rusVd  into  the  afield,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell" 
[This  stanza  is  very  grand,  even  from  its  total  unadorn- 
ment.  It  is  only  a  versification  of  the  common  narratives : 
but  here  may  well  be  applied  a  position  of  Johnson,  that 
♦'  where  truth  is  sufficient  to  fill  the  mind,  fiction  is  worse 
than  useless."  —  Sir  E.  Brydges.] 


240  APPENDIX. 

Note  12,  p.  92. 

"And EvafCs,  Donald'' s  fame  rings  in  each  clansmatCs  ears." 

Sir  Evan  Cameron,  and  his  descendant  Donald,  the 
"gentle  Lochiel  "  of  the  "forty-five." 

Note  13,  p.  92. 

"And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves." 

The  wood  of  Soignies  is  supposed  to  be  a  remnant  of 
the  forest  of  Ardennes,  famous  in  Boiardo's  Orlando,  and 
immortal  in  Shakspeare's  "As  you  like  it."  It  is  also 
celebrated  in  Tacitus  as  being  the  spot  of  successful  de- 
fence by  the  Germans  against  the  Roman  encroachments. 
I  have  ventured  to  adopt  the  name  connected  with  nobler 
associations  than  those  of  mere  slaughter. 

Note  14,  p.  92. 

"Rider  and  horse,  — friend,  foe,  —  in  one  red  burial  blent !  " 

[Childe  Harold,  though  he  shuns  to  celebrate  the  victory 
of  Waterloo,  gives  us  here  a  most  beautiful  description  of 
the  evening  which  preceded  the  battle  of  Quatre  Bras,  the 
alarm  which  called  out  the  troops,  and  the  hurry  and  con- 
fusion which  preceded  their  march.  I  am  not  sure  that 
any  verses  in  our  language  surpass,  in  vigor  and  in  feeling, 
this  most  beautiful  description.  —  Sir  Walter  Scott.] 

Note  15,  p.  93. 
"/  turned  front  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could  not  bring." 

My  guide  from  Mont  St.  Jean  over  the  field  seemed 
intelligent  and  accurate.  The  place  where  Major  Howard 
fell  was  not  far  from  two  tall  and  solitary  trees  (there  was 
a  third  cut  down,  or  shivered  in  the  battle),  which  stand  a 


•v      APPENDIX.  241 

few  yards  from  each  other  at  a  pathway's  side.  Beneath 
these  he  died  and  was  buried.  The  body  has  since  been 
removed  to  England.  A  small  hollow  for  the  present 
marks  where  it  lay,  but  will  probably  soon  be  effaced;  the 
plough  has  been  upon  it,  and  the  grain  is.  —  After  point- 
ing out  the  different  spots  where  Picton  and  other  gallant 
men  had  perished,  the  guide  said,  "  Here  Major  Howard 
lay:  I  was  near  him  when  wounded."  I  told  him  my  re- 
lationship, and  he  seemed  then  still  more  anxious  to  point 
out  the  particular  spot  and  circumstances.  The  place  is 
one  of  the  most  marked  in  the  field,  from  the  peculiarity 
of  the  two  trees  above  mentioned.  I  went  on  horseback 
twice  over  the  field,  comparing  it  with  my  recollection  of 
similar  scenes.  As  a  plain,  Waterloo  seems  marked  out 
for  the  scene  of  some  great  action,  though  this  may  be 
mere  imagination :  I  have  viewed  with  attention  those  of 
Platea,  Troy,  Mantinea,  Leuctra,  Chaeronea,  and  Mara- 
thon; and  the  field  around  Mont  St.  Jean  and  Hougou- 
mont  appears  to  want  little  but  a  better  cause,  and  that 
undefinable  but  impressive  halo  which  the  lapse  of  ages 
throws  around  a  celebrated  spot,  to  vie  in  interest  with  any 
or  all  of  these,  except,  perhaps,  the  last  mentioned. 

Note  16,  p.  94. 

"Showing  no  visible  sign,  for  such  things  are  untold." 

["  There  is  a  richness  and  energy  in  this  passage,  which 
is  peculiar  to  Lord  Byron,  among  all  modern  poets,  —  a 
throng  of  glowing  images,  poured  forth  at  once,  with 
a  facility  and  profusion,  which  must  appear  mere  waste- 
fulness to  more  economical  writers,  and  a  certain  negli- 
gence and  harshness  of  diction,  which  can  belong  only  to 
an  author  who  is  oppressed  with  the  exuberance  and 
rapidity  of  his  conceptions."  —  Jeffrey.] 


242  APPENDIX. 

Note  17,  p.  94. 

"Like  to  the  apples  on  the  Dead  Sea's  shore." 

The  (fabled)  apples  on  the  brink  of  the  lake  Asphaltes 
were  said  to  be  air  without,  and,  within,  ashes.  Vitii 
Tacitus,  Histor.  lib.  v.  7. 

Note  18,  p.  97. 

"  For  sceptred  cynics  earth  were  far  too  wide  a  den." 

The  great  error  of  Napoleon,  "if  we  have  writ  our 
annals  true,"  was  a  continued  obtrusion  on  mankind  of  his 
want  of  all  community  of  feeling  for  or  with  them;  per- 
haps more  offensive  to  human  vanity  than  the  active  cruelty 
of  more  trembling  and  suspicious  tyranny.  Such  were  his 
speeches  to  public  assemblies  as  well  as  individuals;  and 
the  single  expression  which  he  is  said  to  have  used  on  re- 
turning to  Paris  after  the  Russian  winter  had  destroyed  his 
army,  rubbing  his  hands  over  a  fire,  "This  is  pleasanter 
than  Moscow,"  would  probably  alienate  more  favor  from 
his  cause  than  the  destruction  and  reverses  which  led  to 
the  remark.  —  [Far  from  being  deficient  in  that  necessary 
branch  of  the  politician's  art  which  soothes  the  passions 
and  conciliates  the  prejudices  of  those  whom  they  wish 
to  employ  as  instruments,  Buonaparte  possessed  it  in  ex- 
quisite perfection.  He  seldom  missed  finding  the  very 
man  that  was  fittest  for  his  immediate  purpose;  and  he 
had,  in  a  peculiar  degree,  the  art  of  moulding  him  to  it. 
It  was  not,  then,  because  he  despised  the  means  necessary 
to  gain  his  end,  that  he  finally  fell  short  of  attaining  it, 
but  because,  confiding  in  his  stars,  his  fortune,  and  his 
strength,  the  ends  which  he  proposed  were  unattainable 
even  by  the  gigantic  means  which  he  possessed.  —  SiR 
Walter  Scott.] 


APPENDIX.  243 

Note  19,  p.  98. 

"And  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits  led." 

[This  is  certainly  splendidly  written,  but  we  trust  it  is 
not  true.  From  Macedonia's  madman  to  the  Swede  — 
from  Nimrod  to  Buonaparte,  —  the  hunters  of  men  have 
pursued  their  sport  with  as  much  gayety,  and  as  little 
remorse,  as  the  hunters  of  other  animals;  and  have  lived 
as  cheerily  in  their  days  of  action,  and  as  comfortably  in 
their  repose,  as  the  followers  of  better  pursuits.  It  would 
be  strange,  therefore,  if  the  other  active,  but  more  inno- 
cent spirits,  whom  Lord  Byron  has  here  placed  in  the 
same  predicament,  and  who  share  all  their  sources  of 
enjoyment,  without  the  guilt  and  the  hardness  which  they 
cannot  fail  of  contracting,  should  be  more  miserable  or 
more  unfriended  than  those  splendid  curses  of  their  kind; 
and  it  would  be  passing  strange,  and  pitiful,  if  the  most 
precious  gifts  of  Providence  should  produce  only  unhappi- 
ness,  and  mankind  regard  with  hostility  their  greatest 
benefactors.  — Jeffrey.] 

Note  20,  p,  99. 

"  If^at  want  these  outlaws  conquerors  should  have  f  " 

"What  wants  that  knave  that  a  king  should  have?'* 
was  King  James's  question  on  meeting  Johnny  Armstrong 
and  his  followers  in  full  accoutrements.  —  See  the  Ballad. 

Note  21,  p.  102. 

"  The  castled  crag  of  DrachenfelsV 

The  castle  of  Drachenfels  stands  on  the  highest  summit 
of  "the  Seven  Mountains,"  over  the  Rhine  banks:  it  is  in 
ruins,  and  connected  with  some  singular  traditions:  it  is 
the  first  in  view  on  the  road  from  Bonn,  but  on  the  oppo- 


244  APPENDIX. 

site  side  of  the  river;  on  this  bank,  nearly  facing  it,  are 
the  remains  of  another,  called  the  Jew's  Castle,  and  a  large 
cross  commemorative  of  the  murder  of  a  chief  by  his 
brother.  The  number  of  castles  and  cities  along  the 
course  of  the  Rhine  on  both  sides  is  very  great,  and  their 
situations  remarkably  beautiful.  [These  verses  were  writ- 
ten on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  in  May.  The  original 
pencilling  is  before  us.  It  is  needless  to  observe  that  they 
were  addressed  to  his  sister.  —  E.] 

Note  22,  p.  104. 

"  The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  nun  iPer  him  weft.'' 

The  monument  of  the  young  and  lamented  General 
Marceau  (killed  by  a  rifle-ball  at  Alterkirchen,  on  the  last 
day  of  the  fourth  year  of  the  French  republic)  still  re- 
mains as  described.  The  inscriptions  on  his  monument  are 
rather  too  long,  and  not  required:  his  name  was  enough; 
France  adored,  and  her  enemies  admired;  both  wept  over 
him.  His  funeral  was  attended  by  the  generals  and  de- 
tachments from  both  armies.  In  the  same  grave  General 
Hoche  is  interred,  a  gallant  man  also  in  every  sense  of 
the  word;  but  though  he  distinguished  himself  greatly  in 
battle,  he  had  not  the  good  fortune  to  die  there :  his  death 
was  attended  by  suspicions  of  poison.  A  separate  monu- 
ment (not  over  his  body,  which  is  buried  by  Marceau's) 
is  raised  for  him  near  Andernach,  opposite  to  which  one 
of  his  most  memorable  exploits  was  performed,  in  throw- 
ing a  bridge  to  an  island  on  the  Rhine.  The  shape  and 
style  are  different  from  that  of  Marceau's,  and  the  inscrip- 
tion more  simple  and  pleasing: — "The  Army  of  the 
Sambre  and  Meuse  to  its  Commander-in-Chief  Hoche." 
This  is  all,  and  as  it  should  be.  Hoche  was  esteemed 
among  the  first  of  France's  earlier  generals,  before  Buona- 


APPENDIX,  245 

parte  monopolized  her  triumphs.     He  was  the  destined 
commander  of  the  invading  army  of  Ireland. 

Note  23,  p.  104. 
"Here  Ehrenbreitsiein,  with  her  shatter' dwaU." 
Ehrenbreitstein,  i.e.,  "the  broad  stone  of  honor,"  one 
of  the  strongest  fortresses  in  Europe,  was  dismantled  and 
blown  up  by  the  French  at  the  truce  of  Leoben.  It  had 
been,  and  could  only  be,  reduced  by  famine  or  treachery. 
It  yielded  to  the  former,  aided  by  surprise.  After  having 
seen  the  fortifications  of  Gibraltar  and  Malta,  it  did  not 
much  strike  by  comparison;  but  the  situation  is  command- 
ing. General  Marceau  besieged  it  in  vain  for  some  time, 
and  I  slept  in  a  room  where  I  was  shown  a  window  at 
which  he  is  said  to  have  been  standing  observing  the  prog- 
ress of  the  siege  by  moonlight,  when  a  ball  struck  imme- 
diately below  it. 

Note  24,  p.  104. 

"  Their  cherisKdgau  upon  thee,  lovely  Rhine  !  " 
[On  taking  Hockheim,  the  Austrians,  in  one  part  of  the 
engagement,  got  to  the  brow  of  the  hill,  whence  they  had 
their  first  view  of  the  Rhine.  They  instantly  halted  —  not 
a  gun  was  fired  —  not  a  voice  heard :  but  they  stood  gazing 
on  the  river  with  those  feelings  which  the  events  of  the  last 
fifteen  years  at  once  called  up.  Prirce  Schwartzenberg 
rode  up  to  know  the  cause  of  this  sudden  stop  ;  then  they 
gave  three  cheers,  rushed  after  the  enemy,  and  drove  them 
into  the  water.  —E.] 

Note  25,  p.  to6. 

"  Unseptdchred  they  roam'd,  and  shriek'  d  each  wandering  ghost." 

The  chapel  is  destroyed,  and  the  pyramid  of  bones  di- 
minished to  a  small  number  by  the  Burgundian  legion  in 


246  APPENDIX. 

the  service  of  France  ;  who  anxiously  effaced  this  record 
of  their  ancestors'  less  successful  invasions.  A  few  still 
remain,  notwithstanding  the  pains  taken  by  the  Burgun- 
dians  for  ages  (all  who  passed  that  way  removing  a  bone 
to  their  own  country),  and  the  less  justifiable  larcenies  oi 
the  Swiss  postilions,  who  carried  them  off  to  sell  fot 
knife-handles  ;  a  purpose  for  which  the  whiteness  imbibed 
by  the  bleaching  of  years  had  rendered  them  in  great  re- 
quest. Of  these  relics  I  ventured  to  bring  away  as  much 
as  may  have  made  a  quarter  of  a  hero,  for  which  the  sole 
excuse  is,  that  if  I  had  not,  the  next  passer-by  might  have 
perverted  them  to  worse  uses  than  the  careful  preservation 
for  which  I  intend  them. 

Note  26,  p.  106. 

"  LevelVd  Aventicum,  hath  itreiv^ d her  subject  lands.** 

Aventicum,  near  Moral,  was  the  Roman  capital  of  HeK 
vetia,  where  Avenches  now  stands. 

Note  27,  p.  107. 

"  And  held  within  their  urn  one  mind,  one  heart,  one  dust." 

Julia  Alpinula,  a  young  Aventian  priestess,  died  soon 
after  a  vain  endeavor  to  save  her  father,  condemned  to 
death  as  a  traitor  by  Aulus  Caecina.  Her  epitaph  was  dis- 
covered many  years  ago  ;  — it  is  thus:  —  ^^  Julia  Alpi- 
nula'. Hie  jaceo.  Infelicis  patris  infelix  proles.  Dece 
Aventia  Sacerdos.  Exorare  patris  necem  non  potui  : 
Male  mori  in  fatis  ille  erat.  Vixi  annos  XXIII."- — I 
know  of  no  human  composition  so  affecting  as  this,  nor  a 
history  of  deeper  interest.  These  are  the  names  and  ac- 
tions which  ought  not  to  perish,  and  to  which  we  turn 
with  a  true  and  healthy  tenderness,  from  the  wretched 
and  glittering  detail  of  a  confused  mass  of  conquests  and 


APPENDIX.  247 

battles,  with  which  the  mind  is  roused  for  a  time  to  a 
false  and  feverish  sympathy,  from  whence  it  recurs  at 
length  with  all  the  nausea  consequent  on  such  intoxi- 
cation. 

Note  28,  p.  107. 

"  In  the  iutCi  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow." 

This  is  written  in  the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc  (June  3d, 
1 8 16),  which  even  at  this  distance  dazzles  mine.  —  (July 
2oth.)  I  this  day  observed  for  some  time  the  distant  re- 
flection of  Mont  Blanc  and  Mont  Argentiere  in  the  calm 
of  the  lake,  which  I  was  crossing  in  my  boat ;  the  distance 
of  these  mountains  from  their  mirror  is  sixty  miles. 

Note  29,  p.  107. 

"  Lake  Leman  wooes  me  with  its  crystal  face." 

In  the  exquisite  lines  which  the  poet,  at  this  time, 
addressed  to  his  sister,  there  is  this  touching  stanza :  — 

"  I  did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  lake,* 
By  the  old  hall  which  may  be  mine  no  more. 
Leman's  is  fair ;  but  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore : 
Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  make 
Ere  that  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  before  ; 
Though,  like  all  things  which  I  have  loved,  they  are 
Resign'd  for  ever,  or  divided  far." 

Note  30,  p.  108. 

"  By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone!' 

The  color  of  the  Rhone  at  Geneva  is  blue,  to  a  depth 
of  tint  which  I  have  never  seen  equalled  in  water,  salt  or 
fresh,  except  in  the   Mediterranean  and   Archipelago.  — 

•  The  lake  of  Newstead  Abbey. 


248  APPENDIX. 

[See  "  Don  Juan,"  canto  xiv.  stanza  87,  for  a  beautiful 
comparison :  — 

"  There  wa«  no  great  disparity  of  years. 

Though  much  in  temper;  but  they  never  dash'd: 

They  moved  like  stars  united  in  their  spheres, 
Or  like  the  Rhone  by  Leman's  waters  wash'd, 

Where  mingled  and  yet  separate  appears 
The  river  from  the  lake,  all  bluely  dash'd 

Through  the  serene  and  placid  glassy  deep. 

Which  fain  would  lull  its  river-child  to  sleep."  —  £.] 

Note  31,  p.  108. 

"  High  fttoMHtains  are  a  feeling,  but  th«  hum.** 

["Mr.  Hobhouse  and  myself  are  just  returned  from  a 
journey  of  lakes  and  mountains.  We  have  been  to  the 
Grindelwald,  and  the  Jungfrau,  and  stood  on  the  summit 
of  the  Wengen  Alp;  and  seen  torrents  of  900  feet  in  fall, 
and  glaciers  of  all  dimensions;  we  have  heard  shepherds' 
pipes,  and  avalanches,  and  looked  on  the  clouds  foaming 
up  from  the  valleys  below  us  like  the  spray  of  the  ocean 
of  hell.  Chamouni,  and  that  which  it  inherits,  we  saw  a 
month  ago;  but,  though  Mont  Blanc  is  higher,  it  is  not 
equal  in  wildness  to  the  Jungfrau,  the  Eighers,  the  Shreck- 
horn,  and  the  Rose  Glaciers.  Besides  this,  I  have  been 
over  all  the  Bernese  Alps  and  their  lakes,  and  think  many 
of  the  scenes  (some  of  which  were  not  those  usually  fre- 
quented by  the  English)  finer  than  Chamouni.  I  have 
been  to  Clarens  again,  and  crossed  the  mountains  behind 
it."  — ^.  Letters,  Sept.  1816. 

Note  32,  p.  no. 

"  Here  the  self-torturing  sophist,  wild  Rousseau.** 

["I  have  traversed  all  Rousseau's  ground  with  the 
'  Heloise  '  before  me,  and  am  struck,  to  a  degree  that  I 


APPENDIX.  249 

cannot  express,  with  the  force  and  accuracy  of  his  descrip- 
tions, and  the  beauty  of  their  reality.  Meillerie,  Clarens, 
and  Vevay,  and  the  Chateau  de  Chillon,  are  places  of 
which  I  shall  say  little;  because  all  I  could  say  must  fall 
short  of  the  impressions  they  stamp."  —  B.  Letter s,'\ 

NoTB  33,  p.  no. 

"  O'er  erring  deeds  and  thmghts  a  heavenly  Aue." 

["  It  is  evident  that  the  impassioned  parts  of  Rousseau's 
romance  had  made  a  deep  impression  upon  the  feelings  of 
the  noble  poet.  The  enthusiasm  expressed  by  Lord  Byron 
is  no  small  tribute  to  the  power  possessed  by  Jean  Jacques 
over  the  passions:  and,  to  say  truth,  we  needed  some 
such  evidence  ;  for,  though  almost  ashamed  to  avow  the 
truth,  —  still,  like  the  barber  of  Midas,  we  must  speak  or 
die,  —  we  have  never  been  able  to  feel  the  interest  or  dis- 
cover the  merit  of  this  far-famed  performance.  That  there 
is  much  eloquence  in  the  letters  we  readily  admit :  there 
lay  Rousseau's  strength.  But  his  lovers,  the  celebrated 
St.  Preux  and  Julie,  have,  from  the  earliest  moment  we 
have  heard  the  tale  (which  we  well  remember),  down  to 
the  present  hour,  totally  failed  to  interest  us.  There  might 
be  some  constitutional  hardness  of  heart ;  but  like  Lance's 
pebble-hearted  cur.  Crab,  we  remained  dry-eyed  while  all 
wept  around  us.  And  still,  on  resuming  the  volume,  even 
now,  we  can  see  little  in  the  loves  of  these  two  tiresome 
pedants  to  interest  our  feelings  for  either  of  them.  To 
state  our  opinion  in  language*  much  better  than  our  own, 
we  are  unfortunate  enough  to  regard  this  far-famed  history 
of  philosophical  gallantry  as  an  *  unfashioned,  indelicate, 
sour,  gloomy,  ferocious  medley  of  pedantry  and  lewdness  ; 
of  metaphysical  speculations,  blended  with  the  coarsest 
sensuality.'"  —  SiR  Walter  Scott.] 

*  See  Burke'*  Reflectioqf, 


«50  APPENDIX. 

Note  34,  p.  m. 
"  Thh  hallowed,  too,  the  memaraik  kiss" 

This  refers  to  the  account  in  his  "  Confessions  "  of  his 
passion  for  the  Comtesse  d'Houdetot  (the  mistress  of  St. 
Lambert),  and  his  long  walk  every  morning,  for  the  sake 
of  the  single  kiss  which  was  the  common  salutation  of 
French  acquaintance.  Rousseau's  description  of  his  feel- 
ings on  this  occasion  may  be  considered  as  the  most  pas- 
sionate, yet  not  impure,  description  and  expression  of  love 
that  ever  kindled  into  words;  which,  after  all,  must  be 
felt,  from  their  very  force,  to  be  inadequate  to  the  deline- 
ation :  a  painting  can  give  no  sufficient  idea  of  the  ocean. 

Note  35,  p.  in. 

"  Than  vulgar  minds  may  be  with  all  they  seek  poisest." 

["Lord  Byron's  character  of  Rousseau  is  drawn  with 
great  force,  great  power  of  discrimination,  and  great  elo- 
quence. I  know  not  that  he  says  anything  which  has  not 
been  said  before,  —  but  what  he  says  issues,  apparently, 
from  the  recesses  of  his  own  mind.  It  is  a  little  labored, 
which,  possibly,  may  be  caused  by  the  form  of  the  stanza 
into  which  it  was  necessary  to  throw  it;  but  it  cannot  be 
doubted  that  the  poet  felt  a  sympathy  for  the  enthusiastic 
tenderness  of  Rousseau's  genius,  which  he  could  not  have 
recognized  with  such  extreme  fervor,  except  from  a  con- 
sciousness of  having  at  least  occasionally  experienced 
similar  emotions."  —  Sir  E.  Brydges.] 

Note  36,  p.  114. 

"  Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues." 

[During  Lord  Byron's  stay  in  Switzerland,  he  took  up 
his  residence  at  the  well-known  Campagne-Diodati,  in  the 


APPENDIX.  251 

village  of  Coligny.  It  stands  at  the  top  of  a  rapidly  de- 
scending vineyard;  the  windows  commanding,  one  way,  a 
noble  view  of  the  lake  and  of  Geneva;  the  other,  up  the 
lake.  Every  evening,  the  poet  embarked  on  the  lake; 
and  to  the  feelings  created  by  these  excursions  we  owe 
these  delightful  stanzas.  Of  his  mode  of  passing  a  day, 
the  following,  from  the  Journal  already  referred  to,  is  a 
pleasant  specimen :  — 

"  September  18.  Called.  Got  up  at  five.  Hobhouse  walked  on 
before.  Rode  till  within  a  mile  of  Vevay.  Stopped  at  Vevay  two 
hours.  View  from  the  church-yard  superb ;  within  it  Ludlow  (the 
regicide's)  moniunent  —  black  marble  —  long  inscription;  Latin,  but 
simple.  Near  him  Broughton  (who  read  King  Charles's  sentence  to 
Charles  Stuart)  is  buried,  with  a  queer  and  rather  canting  inscription. 
Ludlow's  house  shown.  Walked  down  to  the  lake  side;  servants, 
carriages,  saddle-horses,  — all  set  off,  and  left  us  plantis  Ih,  by  some 
mistake.  Hobhouse  ran  on  before,  and  overtook  them.  Arrived  at 
Clarens.  Went  to  Chillon  through  scenery  worthy  of  I  know  not 
whom ;  went  over  the  castle  again.  Met  an  English  party  in  a  car- 
riage ;  a  lady  in  it  fast  asleep  —  fast  asleep  in  the  most  anti-narcotic 
spot  in  the  world, — excellent!  After  a  slight  and  short  dinner,  vis- 
ited the  Chdteau  de  Clarens.  Saw  all  worth  seeing,  and  then  de- 
scended to  the  '  Bosquet  de  Julie,'  etc.:  our  guide  full  of  Rousseau, 
whom  he  is  eternally  confounding  with  St.  Preux,  and  mixing  the  man 
and  the  book.  Went  again  as  far  as  Chillon,  to  revisit  the  little  tor- 
rent from  behind  it.  The  corporal  who  showed  the  wonders  of  Chil- 
lon was  as  drunk  as  Blucher,  and  (to  my  mind)  as  great  a  man :  he 
was  deaf  also ;  and,  thinking  every  one  else  so,  roared  out  the  legends 
of  the  castle  so  fearfully,  that  Hobhouse  got  out  of  humor.  How- 
ever, we  saw  things  from  the  gallows  to  the  dungeons.  Sunset  re- 
flected in  the  lake.  Nine  o'clock  — going  to  bed.  Have  to  get  up 
at  five  to-morrow." 

After  Lord  Byron  quitted  the  Campagne-Diodati,  Sir 
Egcrton  Brydges  tells  us,  that  the  doors  of  the  house  were 
Ijcset  by  travellers,  anxious  to  get  a  sight  of  the  room  in 
which  the  poet  slept.  —  E.] 


as*  APPENDIX. 

N0TE37,  p.  115. 

"  Of  earth^^ ergazing  mountains,  and  thus  take." 

It  is  to  be  recollected,  that  the  most  beautiful  and  im* 
pressive  doctrines  of  the  divine  Founder  of  Christianity 
were  delivered,  not  in  the  Temple,  but  on  the  Mount.  To 
waive  the  question  of  devotion,  and  turn  to  human  elo- 
quence, —  the  most  effectual  and  splendid  specimens  were 
not  pronounced  within  walls.  Demosthenes  addressed  the 
public  and  popular  assemblies.  Cicero  spoke  in  the  forum. 
That  this  added  to  their  effect  on  the  mind  of  both  orator 
and  hearers,  may  be  conceived  from  the  difference  between 
what  we  read  of  the  emotions  then  and  there  produced, 
and  those  we  ourselves  experience  in  the  perusal  in  the 
closet.  It  is  one  thing  to  read  the  Iliad  at  Sigseum  and  on 
the  tumuli,  or  by  the  springs  with  Mount  Ida  above,  and 
the  plain  and  rivers  and  Archipdago  around  you;  and 
another  to  trim  your  taper  over  it  in  a  snug  library  —  this 
I  know.  Were  the  early  and  rapid  progress  of  what  is 
called  Methodism  to  be  attributed  to  any  cause  beyond  the 
enthusiasm  excited  by  its  vehement  faith  and  doctrines 
(the  truth  or  error  of  which  I  presume  neither  to  canvass 
nor  to  question),  I  should  venture  to  ascribe  it  to  the  prac- 
tice of  preaching  in  ihe  fields,  and  the  unstudied  and  ex- 
temporaneous effusions  of  its  teachers.  —  The  Mussulmans, 
whose  erroneous  devotion  (at  least  in  the  lower  orders)  is 
most  sincere,  and  therefore  impressive,  are  accustomed  to 
repeat  their  prescribed  orisons  and  prayers,  wherever  they 
may  be,  at  the  stated  hours  —  of  course,  frequently  in  the 
open  air,  kneeling  upon  a  light  mat  (which  they  carry  for 
the  purpose  of  a  bed  or  cushion  as  required) :  the  ceremony 
lasts  some  minutes,  during  which  they  are  totally  absorbed, 
and  only  living  in  their  supplication :  nothing  can  disturb 
them.     On  me  the  simple  and  entire  sincerity  of   these 


APPENDIX.  253 

men,  and  the  spirit  which  appeared  to  be  within  and  upon 
them,  made  a  far  greater  impression  than  any  general  rite 
which  was  ever  performed  in  places  of  worship,  of  which 
I  have  seen  those  of  almost  every  persuasion  under  the 
sun;  including  most  of  our  own  sectaries,  and  the  Greek, 
the  Catholic,  the  Armenian,  the  Lutheran,  the  Jewish,  and 
the  Mahometan.  Many  of  the  negroes,  of  whom  there  are 
numbers  in  the  Turkish  empire,  are  idolaters,  and  have 
free  exercise  of  their  belief  and  its  rites :  some  of  these  I 
had  a  distant  view  of  at  Patras;  and,  from  what  I  could 
make  out  of  them,  they  appeared  to  be  of  a  truly  Pagan 
description,  and  not  very  agreeable  to  a  spectator. 

Note  38,  p.  116. 

"  A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  I " 

The  thunder-storm  to  which  these  lines  refer  occurred 
on  the  13th  of  June,  1816,  at  midnight.  I  have  seen, 
among  the  Acroceraunian  mountains  of  Chimari,  several 
more  terrible,  but  none  more  beautiful. 

Note  39,  p.  116. 

"  As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  ayoung  earthquake's  birth." 

["This  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  passages  of  the 
poem.  The  '  fierce  and  far  delight '  of  a  thunder-storm  is 
here  described  in  verse  almost  as  vivid  as  its  lightnings. 
The  live  thunder  '  leaping  among  the  rattling  crags  '  — 
the  voice  of  mountains,  as  if  shouting  to  each  other  —  the 
plashing  of  the  big  rain  —  the  gleaming  of  the  wide  lake, 
lighted  like  a  phosphoric  sea — present  a  picture  of  sublime 
terror,  yet  of  enjoyment,  often  attempted,  but  never  so 
well,  certainly  never  better,  brought  out  in  poetry."  — 
Sir  Walter  Scott.] 


254  APPENDIX. 

Note  40,  p.  117. 

"  0/what  in  me  is  sUepless,  —  i/ 1  rest." 

The  Journal  of  his  Swiss  tour,  which  Lord  Byron  kept 
for  his  sister,  closes  with  the  following  mournful  pas- 
sage :  —  "In  the  weather,  for  this  tour,  of  thirteen  days, 
I  have  been  very  fortunate  —  fortunate  in  a  companion  ' ' 
(Mr.  Hobhouse)  —  "fortunate  in  our  prospects,  and  ex- 
empt from  even  the  little  petty  accidents  and  delays  which 
often  render  journeys  in  a  less  wild  country  disappointing. 
I  was  disposed  to  be  pleased.  I  am  a  lover  of  nature,  and 
an  admirer  of  beauty.  I  can  bear  fatigue,  and  welcome 
privation,  and  have  seen  some  of  the  noblest  views  in  the 
world.  But  in  all  this,  —  the  recollection  of  bitterness, 
and  more  especially  of  recent  and  more  home  desolation, 
which  must  accompany  me  through  life,  has  preyed  upon 
me  here;  and  neither  the  music  of  the  shepherd,  the  crash- 
ing of  the  avalanche,  nor  the  torrent,  the  mountain,  the 
glacier,  the  forest,  nor  the  cloud,  have  for  one  moment 
lightened  the  weight  upon  my  heart,  nor  enabled  me  to 
lose  my  own  wretched  identity,  in  the  majesty,  and  the 
power,  and  the  glory,  around,  above,  and  beneath  me." 
-E.] 

Note  41,  p.  118. 

"  Clareiu  I  tweet  Clarens,  birthplact  of  deep  love" 

[Stanzas  xcix.  to  cxv.  are  exquisite.  They  have  every- 
thing which  makes  a  poetical  picture  of  local  and  particu- 
lar scenery  perfect.  They  exhibit  a  miraculous  brilliancy 
and  force  of  fancy;  but  the  very  fidelity  causes  a  little 
constraint  and  labor  of  language.  The  poet  seems  to 
have  been  so  engrossed  by  the  attention  to  give  vigor  and 
fire  to  the  imagery,  that  he  both  neglected  and  disdained 
to   render   himself   more   harmonious  by  diffuser  words, 


APPENDIX.  «S5 

wbicb,  while  they  might  have  improved  the  effect  upon 
the  ear,  might  have  weakened  the  impression  upon  the 
mind.  This  mastery  over  new  matter  —  this  supply  of 
powers  equal  not  only  to  an  untouched  subject,  but  that 
subject  one  of  peculiar  and  unequalled  grandeur  and  beauty 
—  was  sufficient  to  occupy  the  strongest  poetical  faculties, 
young  as  the  author  was,  without  adding  to  it  all  the  prac- 
tical skill  of  the  artist.  The  stanzas,  too,  on  Voltaire  and 
Gibbon  are  discriminative,  sagacious,  and  just.  They  are 
among  the  proofs  of  that  very  great  variety  of  talent  which 
this  Canto  of  Lord  Byron  exhibits.  —  Sir  E.  Brydges.] 

Note  42,  p.  118. 

"  Posset  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most  desolate  hour" 

Rousseau's  "H^loise,"  Lettre  17,  part  4,  note.  "Ces 
montagnes  sont  si  hautes  qu'une  demi-heure  apr&  le  soleil 
couche,  leurs  sommets  sont  eclaires  de  ses  rayons;  dont 
fe  rouge  forme  sur  ces  cimes  blanches  une  belle  couleur  de 
r<>j^,  qu'on  apper9oit  de  fort  loin." — This  applies  more 
particularly  to  the  heights  over  Meillerie.  —  "  J'allai  a 
Vevay  loger  "k  la  Qef,  et  pendant  deux  jours  que  j'y  restai 
sans  voir  personne,  je  pris  pour  cette  ville  un  amour  qui 
m'a  suivi  dans  tous  mes  voyages,  et  qui  m'y  a  fait  etablir 
enfin  les  heros  de  mon  roman.  Je  dirois  volontiers  a  ceux 
qui  ont  du  goflt  et  qui  sont  sensibles :  Allez  a  Vevay  — 
visitez  le  pays,  examines  les  sites,  promenez-vous  sur  le 
lac,  et  dites  si  la  Nature  n'a  pas  fait  ce  beau  pays  pour 
une  Julie,  pour  une  Claire,  et  pour  un  St.  Preux;  mais  ne 
les  y  cherchez  pas."  —  Les  Confessions,  livre  iv.  p.  306. 
Lyons,  ed.  1796.  —  In  July,  1816, 1  made  a  voyage  round 
the  Lake  of  Geneva;  and,  as  far  as  my  own  observations 
have  led  me  in  a  not  uninterested  nor  inattentive  survey 
of  all   the   scenes   most   celebrated  by   Rousseau  in   his 


2S6  APPENDIX. 

•'Heloi'se,"  lean  safely  say,  that  in  this  there  is  no  ex- 
aggeration. It  would  be  difficult  to  see  Clarens  (with  the 
scenes  around  it,  Vevay,  Chillon,  B&veret,  St.  Gingo, 
Meillerie,  Eivan,  and  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone)  without 
being  forcibly  struck  with  its  peculiar  adaptation  to  the 
persons  and  events  with  which  it  has  been  peopled.  But 
this  is  not  all :  the  feeling  with  which  all  around  Clarens, 
and  the  opposite  rocks  of  Meillerie,  is  invested,  is  of  a  still 
higher  and  more  comprehensive  order  than  the  mere  sym- 
pathy with  individual  passion;  it  is  a  sense  of  the  exist- 
ence of  love  in  its  most  extended  and  sublime  capacity, 
and  of  our  own  participation  of  its  good  and  of  its  glory : 
it  is  the  great  principle  of  the  universe,  which  is  there 
more  condensed,  but  not  less  manifested;  and  of  which, 
though  knowing  ourselves  a  part,  we  lose  our  individuality, 
and  mingle  in  the  beauty  of  the  whole.  —  If  Rousseau  had 
never  written,  nor  lived,  the  same  associations  would  not 
less  have  belonged  to  such  scenes.  He  has  added  to  the 
interest  of  his  works  by  their  adoption;  he  has  shown  his 
sense  of  their  beauty  by  the  selection;  but  they  have  done 
that  for  him  which  no  human  being  could  do  for  them.  — 
I  had  the  fortune  (good  or  evil  as  it  might  be)  to  sail 
from  Meillerie  (where  we  landed  for  some  time)  to  St. 
Gingo  during  a  lake  storm,  which  added  to  the  magnifi- 
cence of  all  around,  although  occasionally  accompanied  by 
danger  to  the  boat,  which  was  small  and  overloaded.  It 
was  over  this  very  part  of  the  lake  that  Rousseau  has 
driven  the  boat  of  St.  Preux  and  Madame  Wolmar  to 
Meillerie  for  shelter  during  a  tempest.  On  gaining  the 
shore  at  St.  Gingo,  I  found  that  the  wind  had  been  suffi- 
ciently strong  to  blow  down  some  fine  old  chestnut-trees 
on  the  lower  part  of  the  mountains.  On  the  opposite 
height  of  Garens  is  a  chateau.     The  hills  are  covered  with 


APPENDIX.  257 

vineyards,  and  interspersed  with  some  small  but  beautiful 
woods;  one  of  these  was  named  the  "Bosquet  de  Julie;  " 
and  it  is  remarkable  that,  though  long  ago  cut  down  by 
the  brutal  selfishness  of  the  monks  of  St.  Bernard  (to 
whom  the  land  appertained),  that  the  ground  might  be 
enclosed  into  a  vineyard  for  the  miserable  drones  of  an 
execrable  superstition,  the  inhabitants  of  Clarens  still 
point  out  the  spot  where  its  trees  stood,  calling  it  by  the 
name  which  consecrated  and  survived  them.  Rousseau 
has  not  been  particularly  fortunate  in  the  preservation  of 
the  «'  local  habitations"  he  has  given  to  "  airy  nothings." 
The  Prior  of  Great  St.  Bernard  has  cut  down  some  of  his 
woods  for  the  sake  of  a  few  casks  of  wine,  and  Buona- 
parte has  levelled  part  of  the  rocks  of  Meillerie  in  improv- 
ing the  road  to  the  Simplon.  The  road  is  an  excellent 
one,  but  I  cannot  quite  agree  with  the  remark  which  I 
heard  made,  that  "  La  route  vaut  mieux  que  les  souve- 
nirs." [During  the  squall  off  Meillerie,  of  which  Lord 
Byron  here  makes  mention,  the  danger  of  the  party  was 
considerable.  At  Ouchy,  near  Lausanne,  he  was  detained 
two  days,  in  a  small  inn,  by  the  weather;  and  here  it  was 
that  he  wrote,  in  that  short  interval,  the  "  Prisoner  of 
Chillon;  "  "adding,"  says  Moore,  "one  more  deathless 
association  to  the  already  immortalized  localities  of  the 

Lake."  — E.] 

Note  43,  p.  120. 

"  0/  names  luhich  unto  you  bequeathed  a  name" 
Voltaire  and  Gibbon. 

Note  44,  p.  123, 

"Had  I  not  filed  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued." 

*        *         *         "  If  it  be  thus. 
For  Banquo's  issue  have  I Jiled my  mind."  —  Macbeth. 


*58  APPENDIX. 

Note  45,  p.  123. 

"O'er  other:?  grit/s  that  some  sincerely  grieve." 

It  is  said  by  Rochefoucault,  that  "  there  is  always  some- 
thing in  the  misfortunes  of  men's  best  friends  not  dis- 
pleasing to  them." 

Note  46,  p.  123. 

"  That  goodness  is  no  name,  and  happiness  no  dream." 

["It  is  not  the  temper  and  talents  of  the  poet,  but  the 
use  to  which  he  puts  them,  on  which  his  happiness  or 
misery  is  grounded.  A  powerful  and  unbridled  imagina- 
tion is  the  author  and  architect  of  its  own  disappoint- 
ments. Its  fascinations,  its  exaggerated  pictures  of  good 
and  evil,  and  the  mental  distress  to  which  they  give  rise, 
are  the  natural  and  necessary  evils  attending  on  that  quick 
susceptibility  of  feeling  and  fancy  incident  to  the  poetical 
temperament.  But  the  Giver  of  all  talents,  while  he  has 
qualified  them  each  with  its  separate  and  peculiar  alloy, 
has  endowed  the  owner  with  the  power  of  purifying  and 
refining  them.  But,  as  if  to  moderate  the  arrogance  of 
genius,  it  is  justly  and  wisely  made  requisite,  that  he  must 
regulate  and  tame  the  fire  of  his  fancy,  and  descend  from 
the  heights  to  which  she  exalts  him,  in  order  to  obtain 
ease  of  mind  and  tranquillity.  The  materials  of  happiness, 
that  is,  of  such  degree  of  happiness  as  is  consistent  with 
our  present  state,  lie  around  us  in  profusion.  But  the 
man  of  talents  must  stoop  to  gather  them,  otherwise  they 
would  be  beyond  the  reach  of  the  mass  of  society,  for 
whose  benefit,  as  well  as  for  his,  Providence  has  created 
them.  There  is  no  royal  and  no  poetical  path  to  content- 
ment and  heart's-ease:  that  by  which  they  are  attained  is 
open  to  all  classes  of  mankind,  and  lies  within  the  most 
limited  range   of   intellect.     To  narrow  our  wishes   and 


APPENDIX.  259 

desires  within  the  scope  of  our  powers  of  attainment;  to 
consider  our  misfortunes,  however  peculiar  in  their  char- 
acter, as  our  inevitable  share  in  the  patrimony  of  Adam; 
to  bridle  those  irritable  feelings,  which  ungoverned  are 
sure  to  become  governors;  to  shun  that  intensity  of  gall- 
ing and  self-wounding  reflection  which  our  poet  has  so 
forcibly  described  in  his  own  burning  language :  — 

•        *        *        •        'I  have  thought 
Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became, 
In  its  own  eddy,  boiling  and  o'erwrought, 
A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame ' 

—  to  stoop,  in  short,  to  the  realities  of  life;  repent  if  we 
have  offended,  and  pardon  if  we  have  been  trespassed 
against;  to  look  on  the  world  less  as  our  foe  than  as  a 
doubtful  and  capricious  friend,  whose  applause  we  ought 
as  far  as  possible  to  deserve,  but  neither  to  court  nor  con- 
temn —  such  seem  the  most  obvious  and  certain  means  of 
keeping  or  regaining  mental  tranquillity. 

*       •       •       •        '  Semita  certe 
Tranquilla  per  virtutem  patet  unica  vit«.' "  —  Sir  Waltbr  Scott.] 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  IV. 

Note  i,  p.  133 

"Sht  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean" 

Sabellicus,  describing  the  appearance  of  Venice,  has 
made  use  of  the  above  image,  which  would  not  be  poetical 
were  it  not  true.  —  *'  Quo  fit  ut  qui  superne  urbem  con- 
templetur,  turritam  telluris  imaginem  medio  Oceano  figura- 
tam  se  putet  inspicere." 

Note  2.  p.  136. 

"  ^Sparta  hath  tnany  a  worthier  son  than  he.^  " 

The  answer  of  the  mother  of  Brasidas,  the  Lacedae- 
monian general,  to  the  strangers  who  praised  the  memory 
of  her  son. 

Note  3,  p.  137. 

"  The  '  Planter  of  the  Lion,'  which  through  fire.' " 

That  is,  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  the  standard  of  the  re- 
public, which  is  the  origin  of  the  word  Pantaloon  —  Pian- 
taleone,  Pantaleon,  Pantaloon. 

Note  4,  p.  138. 
"Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse." 

The  story  is  told  in  Plutarch's  Life  of  Nicias. 
260 


APPENDIX.  261 

Note  5,  p.  139. 

"AndOtway,  Radclifft,  Schiller,  Shakspeare's  art." 

Venice  Preserved;  Mysteries  of  Udolpho;  the  Ghost- 
Seer,  or  Armenian;  the  Merchant  of  Venice;  Othello. 

Note  6,  p.  139. 
"  Butfrotn  their  nature  will  the  tannen  grovi." 

Tannen  is  the  plural  of  tanne,  a  species  of  fir  peculiar 
to  the  Alps,  which  only  thrives  in  very  rocky  parts,  where 
scarcely  soil  sufficient  for  its  nourishment  can  be  found. 
On  these  spots  it  grows  to  a  greater  height  than  any  other 
mountain  tree. 

Note  7,  p.  141. 

"  Of  all  Art  yields,  and  Nature  can  decree." 

[The  whole  of  this  canto  is  rich  in  description  of  Na- 
ture. The  love  of  Nature  now  appears  as  a  distinct  pas- 
sion in  Byron's  mind.  It  is  a  love  that  does  not  rest  in 
beholding,  nor  is  satisfied  with  describing,  what  is  before 
him.  It  has  a  power  and  being,  blending  itself  with 
the  poet's  very  life.  Though  Byron  had,  with  his  real 
eyes,  perhaps,  seen  more  of  Nature  than  ever  was  before 
permitted  to  any  great  poet,  yet  he  never  before  seemed 
to  open  his  whole  heart  to  her  genial  impulses.  But  in 
this  he  is  changed  ;  and  in  this  and  the  fourth  Cantos  of 
Childe  Harold,  he  will  stand  a  comparison  with  the  best 
descriptive  poets,  in  this  age  of  descriptive  poetry.  — 
Professor  Wilson.] 

Note  8,  p.  142. 

"  Floats  through  the  azure  air  —  an  island  of  the  blest" 

The  above  description  may  seem  fantastical  or  exagger- 
ated to  those  who  have  never  seen  an  Oriental  or  an 


262  APPENDIX. 

Italian  sky,  yet  it  is  but  a  literal  and  hardly  sufficient 
delineation  of  an  August  erening  (the  eighteenth),  as 
contemplated  in  one  of  many  rides  along  the  banks  of  the 
Brenta,  near  La  Mira. 

Note  9,  p.  143. 

"  And  the  soft  quiet  hamlet  where  he  dwelt. ''^ 

["  Half-way  up 
He  built  his  house,  whence  as  by  stealth  he  caught 
Among  the  hills,  a  glimpse  of  busy  life 
That  soothed,  not  stirr'd." 

"  I  have  built,  among  the  Euganean  hills,  a  small  house, 
decent  and  proper  ;  in  which  I  hope  to  pass  the  rest  of 
my  days,  thinking  always  of  my  dead  or  absent  friends." 
Among  those  still  living  was  Boccaccio,  who  is  thus  men- 
tioned by  him  in  his  will:  "To  Don  Giovanni  of  Cer- 
taldo,  for  a  winter  gown  at  his  evening  studies,  I  leave 
fifty  golden  florins  ;  truly,  little  enough  for  so  great  a 
man."  When  the  Venetians  overran  the  country,  Pe- 
trarch prepared  for  flight.  "  Write  your  Name  over 
your  door,"  said  one  of  his  friends,  "  and  you  will  be 
safe."  "I  am  not  sure  of  that,"  replied  Petrarch,  and 
fled  with  his  books  to  Padua.  His  books  he  left  to  the 
republic  of  Venice,  laying,  as  it  were,  a  foundation  for 
the  library  of  St.  Mark  ;  but  they  exist  no  longer.  His 
legacy  to  Francis  Carrara,  a  Madonna  painted  by  Giotto, 
is  still  preserved  in  the  Cathedral  of  Padua.  —  Rogers,] 

Note  10,  p.  144. 

"  Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons,  who  impair." 

The  struggle  is  to  the  full  as  likely  to  be  with  demons 
as  with  our  better  thoughts.     Satan  chose  the  wiiderness 


APPENDIX.  263 

for  the  temptation  of  our  Saviour.  And  our  unsullied 
John  Locke  preferred  the  presence  of  a  child  to  com- 
plete solitude. 

Note  ii,  p.  144. 
"  Ferrara  I  in  thy  wide  and  grass-grown  streets." 

In  April,  1817,  Lord  Byron  visited  Ferrara,  went  over 
the  castle,  cell,  etc.,  and  wrote,  a  few  days  after,  the 
'•Lament  of  Tasso." — "One  of  the  Ferrarese  asked 
me,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  "  if  I  knew  *  Lord 
Byron,'  an  acquaintance  of  his,  now  at  Naples.  I  told 
him  '  No ! '  which  was  true  both  ways,  for  I  knew  not 
the  impostor  ;  and,  in  the  other,  no  one  knows  himself. 
He  stared,  when  told  that  I  was  the  real  Simon  Pure ! 
Another  asked  me,  if  I  had  not  translated  Tasso.  You 
see  what  fame  is !  how  accurate !  how  boundless !  I  don't 
know  how  others  feel,  but  I  am  always  the  lighter  and 
the  better  looked  on  when  I  have  got  rid  of  mine.  It  sits 
on  me  like  armor  on  the  Lord  Mayor's  champion;  and  I 
got  rid  of  all  the  husk  of  literature,  and  the  attendant 
babble,  by  answering  that  I  had  not  translated  Tasso,  but 
a  namesake  had  ;  and,  by  the  blessing  of  Heaven,  I 
looked  so  little  like  a  poet,  that  everybody  believed  me." 
—  B.  Letiers.l 

Note  12,  p.  146. 
"The  southern  Scott,  the  minstrel  who  calPd/orthJ' 

[*'  Scott,"  says  Lord  Byron,  in  his  MS.  Diary,  for  1821, 
**  is  certainly  the  most  wonderful  writer  of  the  day.  His 
novels  are  a  new  literature  in  themselves,  and  his  poetry 
as  good  as  any — if  not  better  (only  on  an  erroneous  sys- 
tem),—  and  only  ceased  to  be  so  popular,  because  the 
vulgar  were  tired  of  hearing  'Aristides  called  the  Just,' 
and  Scott  the  Best,  and  ostracized  him.     I  know  no  read- 


264  APPENDIX. 

ing  to  which  I  fall  with  such  alacrity  as  a  work  of  his.  I 
love  him,  too,  for  his  manliness  of  character,  for  the  ex- 
treme pleasantness  of  his  conversation,  and  his  good- 
nature towards  myself,  personally.  May  he  prosper  1  for 
he  deserves  it."  In  a  letter,  written  to  Sir  Walter,  from 
Pisa,  in  1822,  he  says,  —  "I  owe  to  you  far  more  than 
the  usual  obligation  for  the  courtesies  of  literature  and 
common  friendship;  for  you  went  out  of  your  way,  in 
18 1 7,  to  do  me  a  service,  when  it  required  not  merely 
kindness,  but  courage,  to  do  so;  to  have  been  recorded  by 
you  in  such  a  manner,  would  have  been  a  proud  memorial 
at  any  time,  but  at  such  a  time,  when  '  All  the  world  and 
his  wife,'  as  the  proverb  goes,  were  trying  to  trample 
upon  me,  was  something  still  higher  to  my  self-esteem. 
Had  it  been  a  common  criticism,  however  eloquent  or 
panegyrical,  I  should  have  felt  pleased  and  grateful,  but 
not  to  the  extent  which  the  extraordinary  good-hearted- 
ness  of  the  whole  proceeding  must  induce  in  my  mind 
capable  of  such  sensations."  —  E.] 

Note  13,  p.  147. 

"Wandering  in  youth,  I  traced  the  path  of  him" 

The  celebrated  letter  of  Servius  Sulpicius  to  Cicero,  on 
the  death  of  his  daughter,  describes  as  it  then  was,  and 
now  is,  a  path  which  I  often  traced  in  Greece,  both  by  sea 
and  land,  in  different  journeys  and  voyages.  *'  On  my 
return  from  Asia,  as  I  was  sailing  from  ^Egina  towards 
Megara,  I  began  to  contemplate  the  prospect  of  the  coun- 
tries around  me:  ^gina  was  behind,  Megara  before  me; 
Piraeus  on  the  right,  Corinth  on  the  left :  all  which  towns, 
once  famous  and  flourishing,  now  lie  overturned  and  buried 
in  their  ruins.  Upon  this  sight,  I  could  not  but  think 
presently  within  myself,  Alas!  how  do  we  poor  mortals 


APPENDIX.  265 

fret  and  vex  ourselves  if  any  of  our  friends  happen  to  die 
or  be  killed,  whose  life  is  yet  so  short,  when  the  carcasses 
of  so  many  noble  cities  lie  here  exposed  before  me  in  one 
view."  —  See  Middleton's  Cicero,  vol.  ii.  p.  371. 

Note  14,  p.  148. 

"The  skeleton  of  her  Titanic  form.'''' 

It  is  Poggio,  who,  lookitig  from  the  Capitoline  hill  upon 
ruined  Rome,  breaks  forth  into  the  exclamation,  "  Ut  nunc 
omni  decore  nudata,  prostrata  jacet,  instar  gigantei  cada- 
veris  corrupti  atque  undique  exesi." 

Note  15,  p.  149. 

" Dazzled  and  drunk  ■with  beauty,  till  the  heart." 

In  181 7,  the  poet  visited  Florence,  on  his  way  to  Rome. 
"I  remained,"  he  says,  "  but  a  day:  however,  I  went  to 
the  two  galleries,  from  which  one  returns  drunk  with 
beauty.  The  Venus  is  more  for  admiration  than  love;  but 
there  are  sculpture  and  painting,  which,  for  the  first  time, 
at  all  gave  me  an  idea  of  what  people  mean  by  their  cant 
about  those  two  most  artificial  of  the  arts.  What  struck 
me  most  were,  the  mistress  of  Raphael,  a  portrait;  the 
mistress  of  Titian,  a  portrait;  a  Venus  of  Titian  in  the 
Medici  Gallery;  the  Venus;  Canova's  Venus,  also,  in  the 
other  gallery :  Titian's  mistress  is  also  in  the  other  gallery 
(that  is,  in  the  Pitti  Palace  gallery);  the  Parcse  of  Michael 
Angelo,  a  picture;  and  the  Antinous,  the  Alexander,  and 
one  or  two  not  very  decent  groups  in  marble;  the  Genius 
of  Death,  a  sleeping  figure,  etc.  I  also  went  to  the 
Medici  chapel.  Fine  frippery  in  great  slabs  of  various 
expensive  stones,  to  commemorate  fifty  rotten  and  forgot- 
ten carcasses.     It  is  unfinished,  and  will  remain  so."    We 


266  APPENDIX. 

find  the  following  note  of  a  second  visit  to  the  galleries  in 
1 82 1,  accompanied  by  the  author  of  "The  Pleasures  of 
Memory:"  —  "My  former  impressions  were  confirmed; 
but  there  were  too  many  visitors  to  allow  me  to  feel  any- 
thing properly.  When  we  were  (about  thirty  or  forty) 
all  stuffed  into  the  cabinet  of  gems  and  knick-knackeries, 
in  a  corner  of  one  of  the  galleries,  I  told  Rogers  that  •  it 
felt  like  being  in  the  watch-house.'  I  heard  one  bold 
Briton  declare  to  the  woman  on  his  arm,  looking  at  the 
Venus  of  Titian,  *  Well,  now,  that  is  really  very  fine  in- 
deed!'—  an  observation  which,  like  that  of  the  landlord 
in  Joseph  Andrews,  on  *  the  certainty  of  death,'  was  (as 
the  landlord's  wife  observed)  'extremely  true.'  In  the 
Pitti  Palace,  I  did  not  omit  Goldsmith's  prescription  for 
a  connoisseur;  viz.,  'that  the  pictures  would  have  been 
better  if  the  painter  had  taken  more  pains,  and  to  praise 
the  works  of  Peter  Perugino.'  " — E.] 

Note  16,  p.  150. 

"ShcfWtr'doH  his  eyelids,  Irrow,  and  mouth,  as  from  an  urn  1 " 

[The  delight  with  which  the  pilgrim  contemplates  the 
ancient  Greek  statues  at  Florence,  and  afterwards  at  Rome, 
is  such  as  might  have  been  expected  from  any  great  poet, 
whose  youthful  mind  had,  like  his,  been  imbued  with  those 
classical  ideas  and  associations  which  afford  so  many 
sources  of  pleasure,  through  every  period  of  life.  He 
has  gazed  upon  these  masterpieces  of  art  with  a  more 
susceptible,  and,  in  spite  of  his  disavowal,  with  a  more 
learned  eye,  than  can  be  traced  in  the  effusions  of  any 
poet  who  had  previously  expressed,  in  any  formal  manner, 
his  admiration  of  their  beauty.  It  may  appear  fanciful  to 
say  so;  —  but  we  think  the  genius  of  Byron  is,  more  than 
that  of  any  other  modern  poet,  akin  to  that  peculiar  genius 


APPENDIX.  267 

which  seems  to  have  been  diffused  among  all  the  poets 
and  artists  of  ancient  Greece;  and  in  whose  spirit,  above 
all  its  other  wonders,  the  great  specimens  of  sculpture 
seem  to  have  been  conceived  and  executed.  His  creations, 
whether  of  beauty  or  of  strength,  are  all  single  creations. 
He  requires  no  grouping  to  give  effect  to  his  favorites,  or 
to  tell  his  story.  His  heroines  are  solitary  symbols  of 
loveliness,  which  require  no  foil;  his  heroes  stand  alone 
as  upon  marble  pedestals,  displaying  the  naked  power  of 
passion,  or  the  wrapped  up  and  reposing  energy  of  grief. 
The  artist  who  would  illustrate,  as  it  is  called,  the  works 
of  any  of  our  other  poets,  must  borrow  the  mimic  splen- 
dors of  the  pencil.  He  who  would  transfer  into  another 
vehicle  the  spirit  of  Byron,  must  pour  the  liquid  metal,  or 
hew  the  stubborn  rock.  What  he  loses  in  ease,  he  will 
gain  in  power.  He  might  draw  from  Medora,  Gulnare, 
Lara,  or  Manfred,  subjects  for  relievos,  worthy  of  enthu- 
siasm almost  as  great  as  Harold  has  himself  displayed  on 
the  contemplation  of  the  loveliest  and  the  sternest  relics 
of  the  inimitable  genius  of  the  Greeks.  —  Professor 
Wilson.] 

Note  17,  p.  150. 

The  artist  and  his  ape,  to  teach  and  tell" 

[Only  a  week  before  the  poet  visited  the  Florence 
gallery,  he  wrote  thus  to  a  friend: — "  I  know  nothing  of 
painting.  Depend  upon  it,  of  all  the  arts,  it  is  the  most 
artificial  and  unnatural,  and  that  by  which  the  nonsense  of 
mankind  is  most  imposed  upon.  I  never  yet  saw  the  pic- 
ture or  the  statue  which  came  a  league  within  my  concep- 
tion or  expectation;  but  I  have  seen  many  mountains,  and 
seas,  and  rivers,  and  views,  and  two  or  three  women,  who 
went  as  far  beyond  it."  —  B.  Letters.^ 


268  APPENDIX. 

Note  i8,  p.  154. 

"A  n  earthquake  reel  '</  unkeededly  away  1 " 

[An  earthquake  which  shook  all  Italy  occurred  during 
the  battle,  and  was  unfelt  by  any  of  the  combatants.  — E.] 

Note  19,  p.  155. 

"Made  the  earth  wet,  and  turned  the  utvwilling  waters  red." 

["  The  lovely  peaceful  mirror  reflected  the  mountains  of 
Monte  Pulciana,  and  the  wild  fowl  skimming  its  ample 
surface,  touched  the  waters  with  their  rapid  wings,  leaving 
circles  and  trains  of  light  to  glitter  in  gray  repose.  As  we 
moved  along,  one  set  of  interesting  features  yielded  to 
another,  and  every  change  excited  new  delight.  Yet,  was 
it  not  among  these  tranquil  scenes  that  Hannibal  and 
Flaminius  met?  Was  not  the  blush  of  blood  upon  the 
silver  lake  of  Thrasimene?  "  —  H.  W.  Williams,] 

Note  20,  p.  155. 

"  A  nd  on  thy  happy  shore  a  Temple  still." 

["This  pretty  little  gem  stands  on  the  acclivity  of  a 
bank  overlooking  its  crystal  waters,  which  have  their 
source  at  the  distance  of  some  hundred  yards  towards 
Spoleto.  The  temple,  fronting  the  river,  is  of  an  oblong 
form,  in  the  Corinthian  order.  Four  columns  support  the 
pediment,  the  shafts  of  which  are  covered  in  spiral  lines, 
and  in  forms  to  represent  the  scales  of  fishes :  the  bases, 
too,  are  richly  sculptured.  Within  the  building  is  a 
chapel  the  walls  of  which  are  covered  with  many  hun- 
dred names;  but  we  saw  none  which  we  could  recognize 
as  British.  Can  it  be  that  this  classical  temple  is  seldom 
visited  by  our  countrymen,  though  celebrated  by  Dryden 
and  Addison?     To  future  travellers   from  Britain  it  will 


APPENDIX.  269 

surely  be  rendered  interesting  by  the  beautiful  lines  of 
Lord  Byron,  flowing  as  sweetly  as  the  lovely  stream  which 
they  describe."  —  H.  W.  Williams.] 

Note  21,  p.  156. 

"  Pay  orisons/or  this  suspension  of  disgust." 

['•  Perhaps  there  are  no  verses  in  our  language  of  hap- 
pier descriptive  power  than  the  two  stanzas  which  charac- 
terize the  Clitumnus.  In  general  poets  find  it  so  difficult 
to  leave  an  interesting  subject,  that  they  injure  the  dis- 
tinctness of  the  description  by  loading  it  so  as  to  embar- 
rass, rather  than  excite,  the  fancy  of  the  reader;  or  else, 
to  avoid  that  fault,  they  confine  themselves  to  cold  and 
abstract  generalities.  Byron  has,  in  these  stanzas,  admir- 
ably steered  his  course  betwixt  these  extremes;  while  they 
present  the  outlines  of  a  picture  as  pure  and  as  brilliant 
as  those  of  Claude  Lorraine,  the  task  of  filling  up  the 
more  minute  particulars  is  judiciously  left  to  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  reader;  and  it  must  be  dull  indeed  if  it  does 
not  supply  what  the  poet  has  left  unsaid,  or  but  generally 
and  briefly  intimated.  While  the  eye  glances  over  the 
lines,  we  seem  to  feel  the  refreshing  coolness  of  the  scene 
—  we  hear  the  bubbling  tale  of  the  more  rapid  streams, 
and  see  the  slender  proportions  of  the  rural  temple  re- 
flected in  the  crystal  depth  of  the]  calm  pool.  "  —  Bishop 

Heber.] 

Note  22,  p.  157. 

"  Charming  tht  eye  with  dread,  —  a  tnatchiess  cataract." 

I  saw  the  *'  Cascata  del  marmore  "  of  Terni  twice,  at 
different  periods;  once  from  the  summit  of  the  precipice, 
and  again  from  the  valley  below.  The  lower  view  is  far 
to  be  preferred,  if  the  traveller  has  time  for  one  only; 
but  in  any  point  of  view,  either  from  above  or  below,  it  is 


270  APPENDIX. 

worth  all  the  cascades  and  torrents  of  Switzerland  put  to- 
gether :  the  Staubach,  Reichenbach,  Pisse  Vache,  fall  of 
Arpenaz,  etc.,  are  rills  in  comparative  appearance.  Of  the 
fall  of  Schaffhausen  I  cannot  speak,  not  yet  having  seen  it. 
["The  stunning  sound,  the  mist,  uncertainty,  and  tre- 
mendous depth,  bewildered  the  senses  for  a  time,  and  the 
eye  had  little  rest  from  the  impetuous  and  hurrying  waters, 
to  search  into  the  mysterious  and  whitened  gulf,  which 
presented,  through  a  cloud  of  spray,  the  apparitions,  as  it 
were,  of  rocks  and  overhanging  wood.  The  wind,  how- 
ever, would  sometimes  remove  for  an  instant  this  misty 
veil,  and  display  such  a  scene  of  havoc  as  appalled  the 
soul."  —  H.  W.  Williams.] 

Note  23,  p.  157. 

*'  An  Irii  sits,  amidst  the  in/ernal surge  " 

Of  the  time,  place,  and  qualities  of  this  kind  of  iris,  the 
reader  will  see  a  short  account,  in  a  note  to  "  Manfred." 
The  fall  looks  so  much  like  "the  hell  of  waters,"  that 
Addison  thought  the  descent  alluded  to  by  the  gulf  in 
which  Alecto  plunged  into  the  infernal  regions.  It  is  sin- 
gular enough,  that  two  of  the  finest  cascades  in  Europe 
should  be  artificial  —  this  of  the  Velino,  and  the  one  at 
Tivoli.  The  traveller  is  strongly  recommended  to  trace 
the  Velino,  at  least  as  high  as  the  little  lake,  called  Pie^ 
di  Lup.  The  Reatine  territory  was  the  Italian  Tempe,* 
and  the  ancient  naturalist,  amongst  other  beautiful  varie- 
ties, remarked  the  daily  rainbows  of  the  lake  Velinus.t 
A  scholar  of  great  name  has  devoted  a  treatise  to  this  dis- 
trict alone.t 

•  Cicer.  Epist.  ad  Attic,  xv.  lib.  iv.  t  Plin.  Hist.  Nat.  lib. 

ii.  cap.  Ixii. 

}  Aid.  Manut.  de  Reatina  Urbe  Agroque,  ap.  Sallengre,  Thesaur. 
torn.  i.  p.  773. 


APPENDIX.  271 

Note  24,  p.  157. 

"  Tht  thundering  lawwine  —  might  be  worshipp'' d  more" 

In  the  greater  part  of  Switzerland,  the  avalanches  are 
known  by  the  name  of  lauwine. 

Note  25,  p.  158. 
"  The  drilPd  dull  lesson,  forced  dawn  word  byword.''^ 

These  stanzas  may  probably  remind  the  reader  of  En- 
sign Northerton's  remarks:  *' D — n  Homo,"  etc.;  but 
the  reasons  for  our  dislike  are  not  exactly  the  same.  I 
wish  to  express,  that  we  become  tired  of  the  task  before 
we  can  comprehend  the  beauty;  that  we  learn  by  rote 
before  we  can  get  by  heart;  that  the  freshness  is  worn 
away,  and  the  future  pleasure  and  advantage  deadened 
and  destroyed,  by  the  didactic  anticipation,  at  an  age 
when  we  can  neither  feel  nor  understand  the  power  of 
compositions  which  it  requires  an  acquaintance  with  life, 
as  well  as  Latin  and  Greek,  to  relish,  or  to  reason  upon. 
For  the  same  reason,  we  never  can  be  aware  of  the  fulness 
of  some  of  the  finest  passages  of  Shakspeare  ("To  be, 
or  not  to  be,"  for  instance),  from  the  habit  of  having 
them  hammered  into  us  at  eight  years  old,  as  an  exercise, 
not  of  mind,  but  of  memory:  so  that  when  we  are  old 
enough  to  enjoy  them,  the  taste  is  gone,  and  the  appetite 
palled.  In  some  parts  of  the  continent,  young  persons 
are  taught  from  more  common  authors,  and  do  not  read 
the  best  classics  till  their  maturity.  I  certainly  do  not 
speak  on  this  point  from  any  pique  or  aversion  towards 
the  place  of  my  education.  I  was  not  a  slow,  though  an 
idle  boy;  and  I  believe  no  one  could,  or  can  be,  more 
attached  to  Harrow  than  I  have  always  been,  and  with 
reason; — a  part  of  the  time  passed  there  was  the  hap- 
piest of  my  life;  and  my  preceptor,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Joseph 


272  APPENDIX. 

Drury,  was  the  best  and  worthiest  friend  I  ever  possessed, 
whose  warnings  I  have  remembered  but  too  well,  though 
too  late,  when  I  have  erred,  —  and  whose  counsels  I 
have  but  followed  when  I  have  done  well  or  wisely.  If 
ever  this  imperfect  record  of  my  feelings  towards  him 
should  reach  his  eyes,  let  it  remind  him  of  one  who  never 
thinks  of  him  but  with  gratitude  and  veneration  —  of  one 
who  would  more  gladly  boast  of  having  been  his  pupil,  if, 
by  more  closely  following  his  injunctions,  he  could  reflect 
any  honor  upon  his  instructor. 

Note  26,  p.  159. 

"  The Niobe  0/ nations  I  there  she  stands." 

['*  I  have  been  some  days  in  Rome  the  Wonderful.  I 
am  delighted  with  Rome.  As  a  whole  —  ancient  and 
modern,  —  it  beats  Greece,  Constantinople,  everything 
—  at  least  that  I  have  ever  seen.  But  I  can't  describe, 
because  my  first  impressions  are  always  strong  and  con- 
fused, and  my  memory  selects  and  reduces  them  to  order, 
like  distance  in  the  landscape,  and  blends  them  better, 
although  they  may  be  less  distinct.  I  have  been  on  horse- 
back most  of  the  day,  all  days  since  my  arrival.  I  have 
been  to  Albano,  its  lakes,  and  to  the  top  of  the  Alban 
Mount,  and  to  Frescati,  Aricia,  etc.  As  for  the  Coliseum, 
Pantheon,  St.  Peter's,  the  Vatican,  Palatine,  etc.  etc., — 
they  are  quite  inconceivable,  and  must  be  seen." — B. 
Letters,  May,  1817.] 

Note  27,  p.  160. 

"  The  trebly  hundred  triumphs  !  and  the  day." 

Orosius  gives  320  for  the  number  of  triumphs.  He  is 
followed  by  Panvinius;  and  Panvinius  by  Mr.  Gibbon  and 
the  modern  writers. 


APPENDIX.  273 

Note  28,  p.  161. 

"  The  dictatorial  vrreaik,  —  couldst  thou  divine." 

Certainly,  were  it  not  for  these  two  traits  in  the  life  of 
Sylla,  alluded  to  in  this  stanza,  we  should  regard  him  as 
a  monster  unredeemed  by  any  admirable  quality.  The 
atonement  of  his  voluntary  resignation  of  empire  may 
perhaps  be  accepted  by  us,  as  it  seems  to  have  satisfied 
the  Romans,  who  if  they  had  not  respected  must  have 
destroyed  him.  There  could  be  no  mean,  no  division  of 
opinion;  they  must  have  all  thought,  like  Eucrates,  that 
what  had  appeared  ambition  was  a  love  of  glory,  and 
that  what  had  been  mistaken  for  pride  was  a  real  grandeur 
of  soul.* 

Note  29,  p.  161. 

"  Beheld  him  win  two  realms,  and,  happier,  yield  his  breath." 

On  the  3d  of  September  Cromwell  gained  the  victory 
of  Dunbar;  a  year  afterwards  he  obtained  •'  his  crowning 
mercy  "  of  Worcester;  and  a  few  years  after,  on  the  same 
day,  which  he  had  ever  esteemed  the  most  fortunate  for 
him,  died. 

Note  30,  p.  169. 

"  Behold  the  Imperial  Mount  I  'tis  thus  the  mighty  falls''' 

The  Palatine  is  one  mass  of  ruins,  particularly  on  the 
side  towards  the  Circus  Maximus.  The  very  soil  is  formed 
of  crumbled  brickwork.  Nothing  has  been  told,  nothing 
can  be  told,  to  satisfy  the  belief  of  any  but  a  Roman  anti- 
quary. See  "Historical  Illustrations,"  p.  206.  —  [The 
voice  of  Marius  could  not  sound  more  deep  and  solemn 

•  Seigneur,  vous  changez  toutes  mes  id^es  de  la  fafon  dont  je  rous 
vois  agir.  Je  croyois  que  vous  aviez  de  I'anibition,  mais  aucunc 
amour  pour  la  gloire  :  je  voyois  bien  que  voire  Snie  dtoit  haute  ;  mais 
je  ne  soupgoniiois  pas  qu'elle  fut  grande." — Dialogues  de  Sylla  et 
d'  Eucrate. 


274  APPENDIX. 

among  the  ruined  arches  of  Carthage  than  the  strains  of  the 
pilgrim  amid  the  broken  shrines  and  fallen  statues  of  her  sub- 
duer."  —  Heber.] 

Note  3r,  p.  169. 

"  There  is  the  moral  of  all  human  tales" 

The  author  of  the  Life  of  Cicero,  speaking  of  the 
opinion  entertained  of  Britain  by  that  orator  and  his  con- 
temporary Romans,  has  the  following  eloquent  passage: — 
•'  From  their  railleries  of  this  kind,  on  the  barbarity  and 
misery  of  our  island,  one  cannot  help  reflecting  on  the 
surprising  fate  and  revolutions  of  kingdoms  ;  how  Rome, 
once  the  mistress  of  the  world,  the  seat  of  arts,  empire, 
and  glory,  now  lies  sunk  in  sloth,  ignorance,  and  poverty, 
enslaved  to  the  most  cruel  as  well  as  to  the  most  contempt- 
ible of  tyrants,  superstition  and  religious  imposture:  while 
this  remote  country,  anciently  the  jest  and  contempt  of 
the  polite  Romans,  is  become  the  happy  seat  of  liberty, 
plenty,  and  letters  ;  flourishing  in  all  the  arts  and  refine- 
ments of  civil  life  ;  yet  running  perhaps  the  same  course 
which  Rome  itself  had  run  before  it,  from  virtuous  indus- 
try to  wealth  ;  from  wealth  to  luxury  ;  from  luxury  to  an 
impatience  of  discipline,  and  corruption  of  morals:  till,  by 
a  total  degeneracy  and  loss  of  virtue,  being  grown  ripe  for 
destruction,  it  fall  a  prey  at  last  to  some  hardy  oppressor, 
and,  with  the  loss  of  liberty,  losing  everything  that  is  valu- 
able, sinks  gradually  again  into  its  original  barbarism."  ♦ 

Note  32,  p.  170. 

"  Scoffing;  and  apostolic  statues  climb." 

The  column  of  Trajan  is  surmounted  by  St.  Peter  ;  that 

of  Aurelius  by  St.  Paul. 

•  See  "  History  of  the  Life  of  M.  Tullius  Cicero,"  sect.  vi.  vol.  ii. 
p.  102. 


APPENDIX.  275 

Note  33,  p.  170. 
"  His  sovereign  virtues  —  stUl  we  TrajatCs  name  adore." 

Trajan  yizs  proverbially  the  best  of  the  Roman  princes; 
and  it  would  be  easier  to  find  a  sovereign  uniting  exactly 
the  opposite  characteristics,  than,'  one  possessed  of  all  the 
happy  qualities  ascribed  to  this  emperor.  "  When  he 
mounted  the  throne,"  says  the  historian  Dion,  "  he  was 
strong  in  body,  he  was  vigorous  in  mind  ;  age  had  im- 
paired none  of  his  faculties ;  he  was  altogether  free  from 
envy  and  from  detraction  ;  he  honored  all  the  good,  and 
he  advanced  them;  and  on;  this  account  they  could  not  be 
the  objects  of  his  fear,  or  of  his  hate;  he  never  listened  to 
informers;  he  gave  not  way  to  his  anger;  he  abstained 
equally  from  unfair  exactions  and  unjust  punishments;  he 
had  rather  be  loved  as  a  man  than  honored  as  a  sovereign ; 
he  was  affable  with  his  people,  respectful  to  the  senate, 
and  universally  beloved  by  both;  he  inspired  none  with 
dread  but  the  enemies  of  his  country," 

Note  34,  p.  i  75- 
"  Vet  let  us  ponder  boldly—  Uis  a  base." 

"At  all  events,"  says  the  author  of  the  Academical 
Questions,  "  I  trust,  whatever  may  be  the  fate  of  my  own 
speculations,  that  philosophy  will  regain  that  estimation 
which  it  ought  to  possess.  The  free  and  philosophic  spirit 
of  our  nation  has  been  the  theme  of  admiration  to  the 
world.  This  was  the  proud  distinction  of  Englishmen, 
and  the  luminous  source  of  all  their  glory.  Shall  we  then 
forget  the  manly  and  dignified  sentiments  of  our  ancestors, 
to  prate  in  the  language  of  the  mother  or  the  nurse  about 
our  good  old  prejudices?  This  is  not  the  way  to  defend 
the  cause  of  truth.  It  was  not  thus  that  our  fathers  main- 
tained it  in  the  brilliant  periods  of  our  history.     Prejudice 


276  APPENDIX. 

may  be  trusted  to  guard  the  outworks  for  a  short  space  of 
time,  while  reason  slumbers  in  the  citadel;  but  if  the  latter 
sink  into  a  lethargy,  the  former  will  quickly  erect  a  stand- 
ard for  herself.  Philosophy,  wisdom,  and  liberty  support 
each  other:  he  who  will  not  reason  is  a  bigot;  he  who 
cannot,  is  a  fool;  and  he  who  dares  not,  is  a  slave." 

Note  35,  p.  180. 

"  Wtre  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away" 

Whether  the  wonderful  statue  which  suggested  this 
image  be  a  laquearian  gladiator,  which,  in  spite  of 
Winkelmann's  criticism  has  been  stoutly  maintained;  or 
whether  it  be  a  Greek  herald,  as  that  great  antiquary  posi- 
tively asserted;*  or  whether  it  is  to  be  thought  a  Spartan 
or  barbarian  shield-bearer,  according  to  the  opinion  of  his 
Italian  editor;  it  must  assuredly  seem  a  copy  of  that  mas- 
terpiece of  Ctesilaus  which  represented  "a  wounded  man 
dying,  who  perfectly  expressed  what  there  remained  of 
life  in  him."  Montfaucon  and  Maffei  thought  it  the 
identical  statue;  but  that  statue  was  of  bronze.  The  glad- 
iator was  once  in  the  Villa  Ludovizi,  and  was  bought  by 
Clement  XII.     The  right  arm  is  an  entire  restoration  of 

Michael  Angelo. 

Note  36,  p.  181. 

"  Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Cixsar's  head" 

Suetonius  informs  us  that  Julius  Caesar  was  particularly 
gratified  by  that  decree  of  the  senate  which  enabled  him 

*  Either  Polifontes,  herald  of  Laius,  killed  by  CEdipus ;  or  Cep- 
reas,  herald  of  Euritheus,  killed  by  the  Athenians  when  he  endeav- 
ored to  drag  the  Heraclidse  from  the  altar  of  mercy,  and  in  whose 
honor  they  instituted  annual  games,  continued  to  the  time  of 
Hadrian ;  or  Anthemocritus,  the  Athenian  herald,  killed  by  the 
Megarenses,  who  never  recovered  the  impiety.  See  "  Storia  delle 
Arti,"  etc.,  tom.  ii.  pp.  203,  204,  205,  206,  207 ;  lib.  ix.  cap.  ii. 


APPENDIX.  277 

to  wear  a  wreath  of  laurel  on  all  occasions.  He  was  anx- 
ious, not  to  show  that  he  was  the  conqueror  of  the  world, 
but  to  hide  that  he  was  bald.  A  stranger  at  Rome  would 
hardly  have  guessed  at  the  motive,  nor  should  we  without 
the  help  of  the  historian. 

Note  37,  p.  182. 

"  '  While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand!  " 

This  is  quoted  in  the  "  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire  "  as  a  proof  that  the  Coliseum  was  entire,  when 
seen  by  the  Anglo-Saxon  pilgrims  at  the  end  of  the 
seventh,  or  the  beginning  of  the  eighth,  century. 

Note  38,  p.  182. 

"FromJ<me  tojestts  —  scared  and  blest  by  time." 

"Though  plundered  of  all  its  brass,  except  the  ring 
which  was  necessary  to  preserve  the  aperture  above; 
though  exposed  to  repeated  fires;  though  sometimes  flooded 
by  the  river,  and  always  open  to  the  rain,  no  monument  of 
equal  antiquity  is  so  well  preserved  as  this  rotundo.  It 
passed  with  little  alteration  from  the  Pagan  into  the  pres- 
ent worship;  and  so  convenient  were  its  rilches  for  the 
Christian  altar,  that  Michael  Angelo,  ever  studious  of 
ancient  beauty,  introduced  their  design  as  a  model  in  the 
Catholic  church."  — Forsyth's  Italy ^  p.  137. 

Note  39,  p.  183. 

"Their  eyes  <m  honor' d  forms,  whose  busts  around thent  close.'* 

The  Pantheon  has  been  made  a  receptacle  for  the  busts 
of  modern  great,  or,  at  least,  distinguished,  men.  The 
flood  of  light  which  once  fell  through  the  large  orb  above 
on  the  whole  circle  of  divinities,  now  shines  on  a  numer- 
ous assemblage  of  mortals,    some  one   or  two  of   whom 


278  APPENDIX. 

have  been  almost  deified  by  the  veneration  of  their  coun- 
trymen. For  a  notice  of  the  Pantheon,  see  "  Historical 
Illustrations,"  p.  287. 

Note  40,  p.  183. 

i  "There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim.  drear  light." 

*•  There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  light 
What  do  I  gaze  on?  "  etc. 

This  and  the  three  next  stanzas  allude  to  the  story  of 
the  Roman  daughter,  which  is  recalled  to  the  traveller  by 
the  site,  or  pretended  site,  of  that  adventure,  now  shown 
at  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas  in  Car  cere. 

Note  41,  p.  184. 

"Turn  to  the  Mole  which  Hadrian  rear'' don  high." 

The  castle  of  St.  Angelo. 

Note  42,  p.  184. 

"But  lo  !  the  dome  —  the  vast  and  wondrous  dome" 
The  church  of  St.  Peter's. 

Note  43,  p.  185. 

"Enter  i  its  grandeur  overwhelms  thee  not." 

["I  remember  very  well,"  says  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
**  my  own  disappointment  when  I  first  visited  the  Vatican; 
but  on  confessing  my  feelings  to  a  brother  student,  of 
whose  ingenuousness  I  had  a  high  opinion,  he  acknowl- 
edged that  the  works  of  Raphael  had  the  same  effect  on 
him,  or  rather  that  they  did  not  produce  the  effect  which 
he  expected.  This  was  a  great  relief  to  my  mind;  and  on 
inquiring  further  of  other  students,  I  found  that  those 
persons  only  who,  from  natural  imbecility,  appeared  to  ba 


APPENDIX.  279 

incapable  of  relishing  those  divine  performances,  made  pre- 
tensions to  instantaneous  raptures  on  first  beholding  them. 
In  justice  to  myself,  however,  I  must  add,  that  though 
disappointed  and  mortified  at  not  finding  myself  enrap- 
tured with  the  works  of  this  great  master,  I  did  not  for  a 
moment  conceive  or  suppose  that  the  name  of  Raphael, 
and  those  admirable  paintings  in  particular,  owed  their 
reputation  to  the  ignorance  and  prejudice  of  mankind;  on 
the  contrary,  my  not  relishing  them  as  I  was  conscious  I 
ought  to  have  done,  was  one  of  the  most  humiliating  cir- 
cumstances that  ever  happened  to  me;  I  found  myself  in 
the  midst  of  works  executed  upon  principles  with  which 
I  was  unacquainted:  I  felt  my  ignorance,  and  stood 
abashed.  All  the  indigested  notions  of  painting  which 
I  had  brought  with  me  from  England,  where  the  art  was 
in  the  lowest  state  it  had  ever  been  in  (it  could  not,  in- 
deed, be  lower),  were  to  be  totally  done  away  and  erad- 
icated from  my  mind.  It  was  necessary,  as  it  is  expressed 
on  a  very  solemn  occasion,  that  I  should  become  as  a  little 
child.  Notwithstanding  my  disappointment,  I  proceeded 
to  copy  some  of  those  excellent  works.  I  viewed  them 
again  and  again;  I  even  affected  to  feel  their  merit  and 
admire  them  more  than  I  really  did.  In  a  short  time,  a 
new  taste  and  a  new  perception  began  to  dawn  upon  me, 
and  I  was  convinced  that  I  had  originally  formed  a  false 
opinion  of  the  perfection  of  art,  and  that  this  great  painter 
was  well  entitled  to  the  high  rank  which  he  holds  in  the 
admiration  of  the  world.  The  truth  is,  that  if  these  works 
had  really  been  what  I  had  expected,  they  would  have 
contained  beauties  superficial  and  alluring,  but  by  no 
means  such  as  would  have  entitled  them  to  the  great 
reputation  which  they  have  borne  so  long,  and  so  justly 
obtained."  — E.J 


28©  APPENDIX. 

Note  44,  p.  191. 
"  Woe  wtUo  us,  not  her  ;  for  she  sleeps  weU.^* 

["  The  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte  has  been  a 
shock  even  here  (Venice),  and  must  have  been  an  earth- 
quake at  home.  The  fate  of  this  poor  girl  is  melancholy 
in  every  respect;  dying  at  twenty  or  so,  in  childbed  — 
of  a  boy  too,  a  present  princess  and  future  queen,  and 
just  as  she  began  to  be  happy,  and  to  enjoy  herself,  and 
the  hopes  which  she  inspired.  I  feel  sorry  in  every  re- 
spect." —  B.  Letter s.'\ 

Note  45,  p.  191. 

"Nations  have  arni'd  in  madness,  the  strange /ate." 

Mary  died  on  the  scaffold;  Elizabeth  of  a  broken  heart; 
Charles  V.  a  hermit;  Louis  XIV.  a  bankrupt  in  means 
and  glory;  Cromwell  of  anxiety;  and,  "  the  greatest  is 
behind,"  Napoleon  lives  a  prisoner.  To  these  sovereigns 
a  long  but  superfluous  list  might  be  added  of  names  equally 
illustrious  and  unhappy. 

Note  46,  p.  191 

"Lo,  Nemit  navelPd  in  the  woody  hills" 

The  village  of  Nemi  was  near  the  Arician  retreat  of 
Egeria,  and,  from  the  shades  which  embosomed  the  temple 
of  Diana,  has  preserved  to  this  day  its  distinctive  appella- 
tion of  The  Grove.  Nemi  is  but  an  evening's  ride  from 
the  comfortable  inn  of  Albano. 

Note  47,  p.  192. 

"The  Sabine yarm  was  titPd,  the  weary  hard's  delight." 

The  whole  declivity  of  the  Alban  hill  is  of  unrivalled 
beauty,  and  from  the  convent  on  the  highest  point,  which 


APPENDIX.  281 

has  succeeded  to  the  temple  of  the  Latian  Jupiter,  the  pros- 
pect embraces  all  the  objects  alluded  to  in  this  stanza;  the 
Mediterranean;  the  whole  scene  of  the  latter  half  of  the 
yEneid,  and  the  coast  from  beyond  the  mouth  of  the  Tiber 
to  the  headland  of  Circseum  and  the  Cape  of  Terracina. 

Note  48,  p.  194. 

"Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they  V 

[When  Lord  Byron  wrote  this  stanza,  he  had,  no  doubt, 
the  following  passage  in  Boswell's  Johnson  floating  on  his 
mind:  — "Dining  one  day  with  General  Paoli,  and  talk- 
ing of  his  projected  journey  to  Italy,  —  'A  man,'  said 
Johnson,  '  who  has  not  been  in  Italy,  is  always  conscious 
of  an  inferiority,  from  his  not  having  seen  what  it  is  ex- 
pected a  man  should  see.  The  grand  object  of  all  travel- 
ling is  to  see  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean.  On  those 
shores  were  the  four  great  empires  of  the  world;  the 
Assyrian,  the  Persian,  the  Grecian,  and  the  Roman.  All 
our  religion,  almost  all  our  law,  almost  all  our  arts,  almost 
all  that  sets  us  above  savages,  has  come  to  us  from  the 
shores  of  the  Mediterranean.'  The  General  observed, 
that  '  The  Mediterranean '  would  be  a  noble  subject  for  a 
poem."  —  Croker's  Boswell,  vol.  iii.  p.  400.  —  E.] 

Note  49,  p.  195. 

"A  nd  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  I  and  my  Joy. " 

[This  passage  would,  perhaps,  be  read  without  emotion, 
if  we  did  not  know  that  Lord  Byron  was  here  describing 
his  actual  feelings  and  habits,  and  that  this  was  an  un- 
affected picture  of  his  propensities  and  amusements  even 
from  childhood,  —  when  he  listened  to  the  roar,  and 
watched  the  bursts  of  the  northern  ocean  on  the  tempestu- 
ous shores  of  Aberdeenshire.     It  was  a  fearful  and  violent 


282  APPENDIX. 

change  at  the  age  of  ten  years  to  be  separated  from  this 
congenial  solitude,  —  this  independence  so  suited  to  his 
haughty  and  contemplative  spirit,  —  this  rude  grandeur  of 
nature,  —  and  thrown  among  the  mere  worldly-minded 
and  selfish  ferocity,  the  affected  polish  and  repelling  cox- 
combry, of  a  great  public  school.  How  many  thousand 
times  did  the  moody,  sullen,  and  indignant  boy  wish  him- 
self back  to  the  keen  air  and  boisterous  billows  that  broke 
lonely  upon  the  simple  and  soul-invigorating  haunts  of 
his  childhood.  How  did  he  prefer  some  ghost-story; 
some  tale  of  second-sight;  some  relation  of  Robin  Hood's 
feats;  some  harrowing  narrative  of  buccaneer-exploits, 
to  all  of  Horace,  and  Virgil,  and  Homer  that  was  dinned 
into  his  repulsive  spirit !  To  the  shock  of  this  change  is, 
I  suspect,  to  be  traced  much  of  the  eccentricity  of  Lord 
Byron's  future  life.  This  fourth  Canto  is  the  fruit  of  a 
mind  which  had  stored  itself  with  great  care  and  toil,  and 
had  digested  with  profound  reflection  and  intense  vigor 
what  it  had  learned;  the  sentiments  are  not  such  as  lie  on 
the  surface,  but  could  only  be  awakened  by  long  medita- 
tion. Whoever  reads  it,  and  is  not  impressed  with  the 
many  grand  virtues  as  well  as  gigantic  powers  of  the  mind 
that  wrote  it,  seems  to  me  to  afford  a  proof  both  of  insen- 
sibility of  heart,  and  great  stupidity  of  intellect."  —  SiR  E. 
Brydges.  ] 

Note  50,  p.  195. 

"My  task  is  dtmf  —  mjf  song  hath  ceased —  my  theme." 

[It  was  a  thought  worthy  of  the  great  spirit  of  Byron, 
after  exhibiting  to  us  his  Pilgrim  amidst  all  the  most  strik- 
ing scenes  of  earthly  grandeur  and  earthly  decay,  —  after 
teaching  us,  like  them,  to  sicken  over  the  mutability,  and 
vanity,  and  emptiness  of  human  greatness,  to  conduct  him 
and  us  at  last  to  the  borders  of  "  the  Great  Deep."     It  is 


APPENDIX.  283 

there  that  we  may  perceive  an  image  of  the  awful  and 
unchangeable  abyss  of  eternity,  into  whose  bosom  so  much 
has  sunk,  and  all  shall  one  day  sink,  —  of  that  eternity 
wherein  the  scorn  and  the  contempt  of  man,  and  the 
melancholy  of  great,  and  the  fretting  of  little  minds,  shall 
be  at  rest  forever.  No  one,  but  a  true  poet  of  man  and 
of  nature,  would  have  dared  to  frame  such  a  termination 
for  such  a  Pilgrimage.  The  image  of  the  wanderer  may 
well  be  associated,  for  a  time,  with  the  rock  of  Calpe,  the 
shattered  temples  of  Athens,  or  the  gigantic  fragments  of 
Rome;  but  when  we  wish  to  think  of  this  dark  personifica- 
tion as  of  a  thing  which  is,  where  can  we  so  well  imagine 
him  to  have  his  daily  haunt  as  by  the  roaring  of  the 
waves?  It  was  thus  that  Homer  represented  Achilles  in 
his  moments  of  ungovernable  and  inconsolable  grief  for 
the  loss  of  Patroclus.  It  was  thus  he  chose  to  depict  the 
paternal  despair  of  Chriseus  — 

"  B^  V  h-xtiiv  napa  Alva  iroAv^AoiV/Soio  t^oAaacn);." 

—  Professor  Wilson.] 


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